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THE CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEN : Moral, Po- 
etical, and Historical. 

THE DIARY OF AN ENNUYEE. 

MEMOIRS OF THE LOVES OF THE POETS. Bio- 
graphical Sketches of Women celebrated in Ancient and Mod- 
ern Poetry. 

STUDIES, STORIES, AND MEMOIRS. 

SKETCHES OF ART, LITERATURE, AND CHAR- 
ACTER. With a Steel Engraving of Raphael's Madonna del 
San Sisto. 

MEMOIRS OF THE EARLY ITALIAN PAINTERS 

(Cimabue to Bassano). 

LEGENDS OF THE MADONNA as represented in ihe 
Fine Arts. 

SACRED AND LEGENDARY ART. In two volumes. 

LEGENDS OF THE MONASTIC ORDERS as repre- 
sented in the Fine Arts. Forming the Second Series J Sacred 
and Legendary Art. 

Each volume, i6mo, $1.25 ; the ten volumes, in box, $12.50; half 
calf, $25.00; tree calf, $35.00. 

WORKS ON ART. New Edition. Edited, and with a new 
Memoir of Mrs. Jameson, by Miss E. M. Hurll, recently of 
Wellesley College. With a large number of illustrations made 
especially for this edition. 5 vols. 8vo, gilt top. 

Sacred and Legendary Art. 2 volumes. 

Legends of the Monastic Orders. 

Legends of the Madonna. 

Memoirs of the Early Italian Painters. 
Per volume, $3.00; the set, 5 volumes, $15.00; half calf, gilt top, 
$25.00 ; half polished morocco, $25.00. 



HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., Publishers, 
Boston and New York. 



MKMOIKS OF THE LOVES 
OE THE POETS 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 

01 

WOMEN CELEBRATED IN ANCIENT AND 
MODERN POETRY 



MRS. JAMESON 



Only she that hath as great a share in virtue as in beauty 
deserves a noble love to serve her, and a true poesie to 
speak her. Habington's Castara. 



From the last London Edition 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

£hr ftibcrsitie IDrcss, CambnOge 

1900 






^%° 



•/\J7 



7? 



<rt 



hurts, relevons-nons sous le poids de 1'existence; n« 
dnnnons pas i\ nos injustes ennemis, a nos amis inprata, 
le hriomphe d'avoir abattu nos faculty intellectuelles. 
lis reduisent ii clicrclier la celebrity ceux qui se seraient 
contends des affections: eh bien! il faut l'atteindre. 
Ces essaifl ambitienz no porteront point remede anx 
peines de Tame; niais ils honoreront la vie. La consacrer 
a l'espoir tou jours trompe" du bonhenr, c'esi la rendre 
encore plus mfortun^e. II vaut mieux reHinir tous ses 
efforts pour descendre avec quelque noblesse, avec quelque 
refutation, la route qui conduit de la jeunesse k la mort. 

MADAMK DE 8TAKU 



THE AUTHOR TO THE READER. 

These little sketches (they can pretend to no 
higher title) are submitted to the public with a feel- 
ing of timidity almost painful. 

They are absolutely without any other pretension 
than that of exhibiting, in a small compass and 
under one point of view, many anecdotes of biog- 
raphy and criticism, and many beautiful poetical 
portraits, scattered through a variety of works, 
and all tending to illustrate a subject in itself full 
of interest, — the influence which the beauty and 
virtue of women have exercised over the characters 
and writings of men of genius. But little praise 
or reputation attends the mere compiler, but the 
pleasure of the task has compensated its difficulty ; 
— " song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy," these 
" flowers of Paradise," whose growth is not of earth, 
were all around me ; I had but to gather tnem from 
the intermingling W6°ds and briars, and to bind 
them into one sparkling wreath, consecrated to the 
glory of women and the gallantry of men. 

The design which unfolded itself before me, as 
these little sketches extended gradually from a few 
memoranda into a volume, is not completed ; much 
Has been omitted, much suppressed. If I have 
paused mid-way in the task, it is not for want of 



Vlll PREFACE. 

materials, which offer themselves in almost exhaust- 
less profusion — nor from want of interest in the 
subject — the most delightful in which the imagina- 
tion ever revelled ! but because I desponded ovei 
my own power to do it justice. I know, I feel that 
it required more extensive knowledge of languages, 
more matured judgment, more critical power, more 
eloquence ; — only Madame de Stael could have ful- 
filled my conception of the style in which it ought 
to have been treated. It was enthusiasm, not pre- 
sumption, which induced me to attempt it. I have 
touched on matters, on which there are a variety 
of tastes and opinions, and lightly passed over ques- 
tions on which there are volumes of grave " historic 
doubts ;" but I have ventured on no discussion, still 
less on any decision. I have been satisfied merely 
to quote my authorities ; and where these exhibited 
many opposing facts and opinions, it seemed to me 
that there was far more propriety and much less 
egotism in simply expressing, in the first person, 
what 1 thought and felt, than in asserting absolutely 
that a thing is so, or is said to be so. Every one 
has a right to have an opinion, and deliver it with 
modesty ; but no one has a right to clothe such opin- 
ions in general assertions, and in terms which seem 
to insinuate that they are or ought to be universal. 
I know I am open to criticism and contradiction on 
a thousand points * but I have adhered strictly to 
what appeared to me the truth, and examined con 
•cientiously aU the sources of information that werf 
open to me. 



PBBFAOB. IX 

The history of this little look, woe it worth 
revealing, would bo the history, in miniature, of 
moat liumaii undertakings: it was begun with en- 
thusiasm; it pat been interrupted by intervals of 
illness, idleness, or more serious cares ; it has been 
pursued through difficulties so great, that they would 
perhaps excuse its many deficiencies ; and now I 
see its conclusion with a languor almost approach- 
ing to despair; — at least with a feeling which, 
while it renders me doubly sensitive to criticism, 
and apprehensive of failure, has rendered me al- 
most indifferent to success, and careless of praise. 

I owe tour beautiful translations from the Italian, 
(which are noticed in their proper places,) to the 
kindness of a living poet, whose justly celebrated 
name, were I allowed to mention it, would be sub- 
ject of pride to myself, and double the value of this 
little book. I have no other assistance of any kind 
to acknowledge. 

***** 

Will it be thought unfeminine or obtrusive, if I 
add yet a few words ? 

I think it due to truth and to myself to seize this 
opportunity of saying, that a little book published 
Borne years ago, and now perhaps forgotten, was 
not written for publication, nor would ever have 
been printed, but for accidental circumstances. 

That the title under which it appeared was not 
given by the writer, but the publisher, who at the 
time knew nothing of the author. 

And that several false dates, and unirapor**** 



X PREFACE. 

circumstances and characters were interpolated, to 
conceal, if possible, the real purport and origin of 
the work. Thus the intention was not to create 
an illusion, by giving to fiction the appearance of 
truth, but, in fact, to give to truth the air of fiction. 
I was not then prepared for all that a woman mib« 
meet and endure, who once suffers herself to ue 
betrayed into authorship. She may repent at 
leisure, like a condemned spirit ; but she has passed 
that barrier from which there is no return. 

C'est assez, — I will not add a word more, lest it 
should be said that I have only disclaimed the title 
of the Ennuyde, to assume that of the Ennuy4u$e. 



CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER I. Pa«i 

a Poet's Love. II 

CHAPTER II. 
Lotos of the Classic Poets 19 

CHAPTER m. 
The Love9 of the Troubadours 24 

CHAPTER IV. 
The Loves of the Troubadours (continued) 87 

CHAPTER V. 
Guido Cavalcanti and Mandetta. — Cino da Pistoja 
and Selvaggia 62 

CHAPTER VI. 
Laura 69 

CHAPTER VII. 
Laura and **etrarch (continued) 74 

CHAPTER VTJI. 
Dante and Beatrice Portinari 87 

CHAPTER EX. 
Dante and IJeiitrkv son tinned) 191 






Kll CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER X. Page 

Chancer and Philippa Picard. — King James and 
Lady Jane Beanfort 107 

CHAPTER XI. 
Lorenzo de' Medici and Lucretia Donati 128 

CHAPTER XII. 
The Fair Geraldine 144 

CHAPTER xm. 
Ariosto, Ginevra, and Alessandra Strozzi 164 

CHAPTER XIV. 
Spenser' s Rosalind. Spenser's Elizabeth 139 

CHAPTER XV. 
On the Love of Shakspeare 183 

CHAPTER XVI. 
Sydney's Stella (Lady Rich) 190 

CHAPTER XVn. 
Court and Age op Elizabeth. 
Drayton — Daniel — Drummond — Mary, Qneen of 
Scots — Clement — Marot and Diana de Poictiers — 
Ronsard'8 Cassandre — Ronsard's Marie — Ronsard's 
Helene 200 

CHAPTER XVm. 

Uimora d'Este ... 218 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Milton and Leonora Baroni 249 

CHAPTER XX. 
Carew's Celia. — Lncy Sacheverel 288 

CHAPTER XXI. 
Waller's Sacharissa 271 



CONTENTS. Xiil 

CHAPTER XXTI. ?*& 

Beautiea anl Poets in the Bstgta of (Charles 1 285 

OHAPTHB xxiii. 

CoNJUdAL Poetry. 
Uvidand Pcrilla — Seneca's PaTjlIna — Sulpicia — Clo- 
tilde de Surville 291 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Conjugal Poetry (continued.) 

Vittoria Colonna TQB 

CHAPTER XXV. 
Conjugal Poetry (continued.) 
Veronica Gambara — Camilla Valentini — Portia Rota 
— Castiglione 818 

CHAPTER XXVT. 

Conjugal Poetry (continued.) 

Doctor Donne and his Wife 827 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Conjugal Poetry (continued.) 

Habington's Castara 838 

CHAPTER XXVLTI. 

Conjugal Poetry (continued.) 

The Two Zappi 368 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Conjugal Poetry (continued.) 

Lord Lyttelton— Prince Frederick— Doctor Parnell. . 86S 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Conjugal Poetry (continued.) 

Klopstock and Meta 849 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

Conjugal Poetry 'continued.) 

Bonoi* Jean— Highland Mary — Loves of Burns 381 



JtlV CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER XXXII. Pagt 

Conjugal Poetry (continued.) 
Monti and his Wife 408 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 
Poets and Beauties from Charles n. to Queen Anns 
Cowley's Eleanora — Maria d'Este — Anne Killegrew — 
Lady Hyde — Duchess of Queensbury — Granville's 
Mira— Prior's Chloe— 414 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 
Swift, Stella and Vanessa 481 

CHAPTER XXXV. 
Pope and Martha Blount 455 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 
Pope and Lady M. W. Montagu 464 

chapter xxx vii. 
Poetical old Bachelors. 
Gray — Collins — Goldsmith — Shenstone — Thomson — 
Hammond 478 

CHAPTER XXX V1LI. 
French Poets. 
Voltaire and Madame du Chatelet — Madame de Con- 
venae" 484 

CHAPTER XXXLX. 

French Poetry (continued.) 

Madame d'Houdetot 49* 

CONCLUSION. 
Heroines of Mcdern Poetry ; 60J 



LOVES OF THE POETS 

— — HTH 

CHAPTER I. 

A POET'S LOVE. 
Io tl clnal de gloria, e fatta ho dea! — GuiDl. 

Of all the heaven-bestowed privileges of the 
poet, the highest, the dearest, the most enviable, is 
the power of immortalizing the object of his love ; 
of dividing with her his amaranthine wreath of 
glory, and repaying the inspiration caught from her 
eyes with a crown of everlasting fame. It is not 
enough that in his imagination he has deified her — 
that he has consecrated his faculties to her honor — 
that he has burned his heart in incense upon the 
altar of her perfections ; the divinity, thus decked 
jut in richest and loveliest hues he places on high, 
and calls upon all ages and all nations to bow down 
oefore her, and all ages and all nations obey 1 wor- 
shipping the beauty thus enshrined in imperish- 
able verse, when others, perhaps as fair, and no* 
less worthy, have gone down unsung, " to dust and 



! 



16 A poet's love. 

an endless darkness." How many women, who 

would otherwise have stolen through the shade of 

domestic life, their charms, virtues, and affections 

buried with them, have become objects of eternai 

interest and admiration, oecause their memory is 

linked with the brightest monuments of human 

genius ? While many a high-born dame, who oiice 

moved, goddess-like, upon the earth, and bestowed 

kingdoms with her hand, lives a mere name in 

some musty chronicle. Though her love was 

sought by princes, though with her dower she 

might have enriched an emperor, — what availed 

it? 

" She had no poet — and she died ! " 

And how have women repaid this gift of immor- 
tality ? O believe it, when the garland was such as 
woman is proud to wear, she amply and deeply re- 
warded him who placed it on her brow. If in re- 
turn for being made illustrious, she made her lover 
happy, — if for glory she gave a heart, was it not a 
rich equivalent ? and if not, — if the lover was un- 
successful, still the poet had his reward. Whence 
came the generous feelings, the high imaginations, 
the glorious fancies, the heavenward aspirations, 
which raised him above the herd of vulgar men 
— but from the ennobling influence of her 
he loved ? Through her, the world opened 
apon him with a diviner beauty, and all na- 
ture became in his sight but a transcript of the 
charms of his mistress. He saw her eyes in the 
o^ars of heaven, her lips in the half-blown rose 



A I'OKi'S I.OVK. 17 

The perfbmti of the opening flowers was hut her 

breach, thai " wafted sweetness round about the 
world . " tin* lily was "a sweet thief" that had 
stolen its purity from her breast The violet was 
dipped iii the azure of her veins; the aurorean 
dews, " dropt from the opening eyelids of the 
morn," were not so pure, as her tears ; the last rose- 
tint of the dying day was not so bright or so deli- 
cate as her cheek. Hers was the freshness and 
bloom of Spring; she consumed him to languor a* 
the Summer sun ; she was kind as the bounteous 
Autumn, or she froze him with her wintry disdain. 
There was nothing in the wonders, the splendors, 
or the treasures of the created universe, — in 
heaven or in earth, — m the seasons or their change, 
that did not borrow from her some charm, some 
glory beyond its own. AVas it not i»wt that the 
beauty she dispensed should be consecrated to her 
adornment, and that the inspiration she bestowed 
should be repaid to her in fame ? 

For what of thee thy poet doth invent, 
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. 
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word 
From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, 
But. found it in thy cheek; lie can afford 
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live. 
Tlien thavk him not for thai which he doth say, 
Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay ! 

Shakspeare's Sonnets. 

The theory, then, which I wish to illustrate, as 
far as my limited powers perm ; t, .* this ; that where 
2 



i8 a poet's love. 

a woman has been exalted above the rest of he* 
sex by the talents of a lover, and consigned to en- 
during fame and perpetuity of praise, the passion 
was real, and was merited ; that no deep or lasting 
interest was ever founded in fancy or in fiction 
that truth, in short, is the basis of all excellence in 
amatory poetry, as in every thing else ; for where 
truth is, there is good of some sort, and where 
there is truth and good, there must be beauty, 
there must be durability of fame. Truth is the 
golden chain which links the terrestrial with the 
celestial, which sets the seal of heaven on the 
things of this earth, and stamps them to immortal- 
ity. Poets have risen up and been the mere fash- 
ion of a day, and have set up idols which have been 
the idols of a day : if the worship be out of date 
and the idols cast down, it is because these adorera 
wanted sincerity of purpose and feeling ; their 
raptures were feigned ; their incense was bought 
or adulterate. In the brain or in the fancy, one 
beauty may eclipse another — one coquette may 
drive out another, and, tricked off in airy verse, 
they float away unregarded like morning vapors, 
which the beam of genius has tinged with a tran- 
sient brightness ; but let the heart once be touched, 
and it is not only wakened but inspired ; the lover 
kindled into the poet, presents to her he lovea 
his cup of ambrosial praise : she tastes — and the 
woman is transmuted into a divinity. When th# 
Grecian sculptor carved out his deities in marble 
%nd left us wondrous and godlike shapes, impep 



GLA88K POSTS. !.• 

conations of ideal grace unapproachable by modern 
drill, was ii through mere mechanical superiority 

So; — it was the spirit of faith within, which shall- 
owed to his imagination what he would represent 
In the same manner, no woman has ever been truly, 
lastingly deified in poetry, but in the spirit of truth 
and of love 1 



CHAPTER II. 

LOVES OF THE CLASSIC POETS. 

I am not sufficiently an antiquarian or scholai 

to trace the muses "upward to their spring," nei- 
ther is there occasion to seek out first examples of 
poetical loves in the days of fables and of demi- 
gods ; or in those pastoral ages when shepherds 
were kings and poets : the loves of Orpheus and 
Eurydiee are a little too shadowy, and those of the 
royal Solomon rather too mixed and too mystical 
for our purpose. — To descend then at once to the 
classical ages of antiquity. 

It must be allowed, that as far as women are con- 
cerned, we have not much reason to regard them 
with reverence. The fragments of the amatory 
poetry of the Greeks, which have been preserved 
to our times, show too plainly in what light we were 
men regarded ; acd graceful and exquisite aa 



20 LOVES OF THE 

many of them are, they bear about them the taint 
of degraded morals and manners, and are utterly 
destitute of that exalted sentiment of respect and 
tenderness for woman, either individually or as a 
sex, which alone can give them value in our eyes. 

I must leave it then to learned commentators to 
explore and elucidate the loves of Sappho and An- 
acreon. To us unlearned women they shine out 
through the long lapse of ages, bright names, and 
little else ; a kind of half-real, half-ideal impersona- 
tions of love and song ; the one enveloped in " a 
fair luminous cloud," the other " veiled in shadow- 
ing roses ; " and thus veiled and thus shadowed, by 
all accounts, they had better remain. 

The same remark, with the same reservation, 
applies to the Latin poets. They wrote beautiful 
verses, admirable for their harmony, elegance, and 
perspicuity of expression ; and are studied as mod- 
els of style in a language, the knowledge of which, 
as far as these poets are concerned, were best con- 
fined to the other sex. They lived in a corrupted 
age, and their pages are deeply stained with its 
licentiousness ; they inspire no sympathy for their 
love, no interest, no respect for the objects of it- 
How, indeed, should that be possible, when their mist 
tresses, even according to the lover's painting, were 
fill either perfectly insipid, or utterly abandoned 
and odious ? * Ovid, he who has revealed to mor- 

•I need scarcely observe, that the following sketch of tne ly* 
cal poets of Rome is abridged from the analysis of their works 
n Gingutne's Hist >ire Literaire, vol. iii. 



CLASSIC roi.i- 2j 

ral ears u all die wfl scandal of the laughing -ky, r 
sml whoso gallantry has become proverbial, repre* 
lenuj himself as bo incenBed by the public and 

ihameless infidt -lities of hi.- ( 'oiin ua. that he .n-atj 
her with the unmanly brutality of some Street rufli- 
an ;-— in plain language, he heats her. They are 

then reconciled, and again there are quarrels, 
eoarse reproaches, and mutual blows. At length 

the lady, as might be expected from such tuition, 
becoming more and more abandoned, this delicate 
and poetical lover requests, as a last favor, that she 
will, for the future, take some trouble to deceive 
him more effectually; and the fair one, can she do 
less V kindly consents ! 

Cynthia, the mistress of Propcrtius, gets tipsy, 
overturns the supper table, and throws the cups at 
her lover's head ; he is delighted with her plai/ful- 
tifss : she leaves him, to follow the camp with a 
soldier; lie weeps and laments: she returns to him 
again, and he is enchanted with her amiable con- 
descension. Her excesses are such, that he is 
reduced to blush for her and for himself ; and he 
confesses that he is become, for her sake, the laugh- 
ing stock of all Rome. Cynthia is the only one of 
these classical loves who seems to have possessed 
any mental accomplishments. The poet praises, 
incidentally, her talents for music and poetry ; but 
not as if they added to her charms or enhanced he! 
valne in his estimation. The Lesbia* of Catullus 

• Clodia, th* wife of Quints Metellus Celer. 



22 LOTES OF THE 

irhose eyes were red with weeping the loss cf hei 
favorite sparrow, crowned a life of the most flagi- 
tious excesses by poisoning her husband. Of the 
various ladies celebrated by Horace and Tibullus 
it would really be difficult to discover which was 
most worthless, venal, and profligate. These were 
the refined loves of the classic poets. 

***** 

JThe passion they celebrated never seems to have 
inspired one ennobling or generous sentiment, nor 
to have lifted them for one moment above the 
grossest selfishness. They had no scruple in ex- 
hibiting their mistresses to our eyes, as doubtless 
they appeared in their own, degraded by every 
vice, and in every sense contemptible ; beings, not 
only beyond the pale of our sympathy, but of our 
toleration. Throughout their works, virtue appears 
a mere jest: Love stripped of his divinity, even by 
those who first deified him, is what we disdain to 
call by that name ; sentiment, as we now understand 
the word, — that is, the union of fervent love with 
reverence and delicacy towards its object, — a 
thing unknown and unheard of, — and all is " of the 
earth, earthy." 

***** 

It is for women I write ; the fair, pure-hearted, 
delicate-minded, and unclaseical reader will recol- 
lect that I do not presume to speak of these poets 
sritically, being neither critic nor scholar; but 
merely with a reference to my subject, and with 
reference to my sex. As monuments of the lai> 



01 L8BIC POB i - 25 

ruageand literature of a great and polished people, 
rich with a thousand beauties of thought and of 
ityle, doubtless they have their value and their 
merit; but as monuments also of a state of morali 
Inconceivably L r ros> and corrupt; of the condition 

of women degraded by their own vices, the vires 
and tyranny of the Other sex, and the prevalence 

of the Epicurean philosophy, the tendency of 
which, (however disguised by rhetoric?) was ever 
to lower the tone of the mind ; considered in this 
point of view, they might as well have all burned 
together in thai vast bonfire of love-poetry which 
the Doctors of the Church raised at Constanti- 
nople: — what a flame it must have made!* 

•".T'ai ouYdire dans mou snftnee -.\ Demetrhu ciiatcondyle, 
hommo tebB instruit de tout ce qui regarde la Grece, qui lea 
Pretres avaicnt en assoz d'influence eur les Empereurs de Con- 
stantinople, pour les engager a brfilcr les ouvrages de pleusieura 
anciens poetes Grccs, et en particulicr de ceux qui parlaient del 
amours, &c. * * * Ces pretres, sans doute, montrerent une mal- 
veillance honteuse envers les anciens poetes; mais ils donnerent 
une grande preuve d'integrite, de probite, et de religion." 

ALCT0NIU8. 

This sentiment is put into the mouth of Leo X. at a time whei 
the mania of classical learning was at its heigh,. — See Roeco* 
QUo X.,) and Qinguen6. 






14 THE LOVES OF 

CHAPTER HL 

THE LOVES OF THE TROUBADOURS. 

Gente, che d'amor givan ragionando. — Petbaboa. 

The irruptions of the northern nations, among 
whom our sex was far better appreciated than 
among the polished Greeks and Romans ; the risa 
of Christianity, and the institution of chivalry, hy 
changing the moral condition of women, gave also 
a totally different character to the homage addressed 
to them. It was in the ages called gothic and bar- 
barous, — in that era of high feelings and fierce 
passions, — of love, war, and wild adventure, that 
the sex began to take their true station in society. 
From the midst of ignorance, superstition, and 
ferocity, sprung up that enthusiasm, that exaggera- 
tion of sentiment, that serious, passionate, and 
imaginative adoration of women, which has since, 
indeed, degenerated into mere gallantry, but waf 
the very fountain of all that is most elevated and 
elegant in modern poetry, and most graceful and 
refined in modern manners. 

The amatory poetry of Provence had the same 
source with the national poetry of Spain; both 
were derived from the Arabians. To them we 
trace not only the use of rhyme, and the varioul 
forms of stanzas employed by the early lyric poets, 






i in: i BOUB \i><>i R8. 2. r ' 

&ut by a strange r.-v. .lut ion, it. tfafl from the Fa-t, 

irhere ^omen are qow 1 » « • 1 < 1 in seclusion, as mere 
loullesfl slaves of tin- passions and caprices of their 

makers lli it tin' sentimental devotion piid to our 
sex in the chivalrous ag6S Was derived.* The 

poetry of the Troubadours kept alive and enhanced 
tin' tone of feeling on \\ bioh it was founded ; it was 
ranse and effect reacting on each other; and 
though then- Bongs exist only in the collections of 
the antiquarian, and the wry language in which 

they wrote has passed away, and may he accounted 
i/earl, — so is not the spirit they left behind: as the 
founders of a new school of amatory poetry, we 
are under obligations to their memory, which throw 
a Strong interest around their personal adventures, 
and the women they eelehrated. 

The tenderness of feeling and delicacy of ex- 
pression in some of these old Provencal poets, are 
the more touching, when we recollect that the 
writers were sometimes kings and princes, and 
often knights and warriors, famed for their hardi- 
hood and exploits. William, Count of Poitou, our 
Richard the First, two Kings of Arragon, a King 
of Sicily, the Dauphin of Auvergne, the Count de 
Foix, and a Prince of Orange, were professors of 
the " gaye science." Thibanlt,f Count of Prov- 



* SiKmoudi— Literature du Midi. 

t Thihault fit Koi galant etvatoureux, 

Ses hints bits et son nm^n'ont rien fait pour sa gldiw. 
Mais il fat chansomnVr — ot ses couplets heureux. 

Wous out conserve sa nu-inoire. — ASSO. de Moww 



«> THE LOVES OF 

ence and King of Navarre, was another of these 
royal and chivalrous Troubadours, and his lais and 
his virelais were generally devoted to the praises 
of Blanche of Castile, the mother of Louis the 
Ninth — the same Blanche whom Shakspeare has 
introduced into King John, and decked out in 
panegyric far transcending all that her favored 
poet and lover could have offered at her feet.* 
Thibault did, however, surpass all his contempora- 
ries in refinement of style : he usually concludes 
his chansons with an envoi, or address, to the 
Virgin, worded with such equivocal ingenuity, that 
it is equally applicable to the Queen of Heaven, 
or to the queen of his earthly thoughts, — "La 
Blanche couronnee." There is much simplicity 
and elegance in the following little song, in which 
the French has been modernized. 

Las! si j'avais pouvoir d'oublier 

Sa beauts, — son bien dire, 
Et son tres doux regarder 

Finirait mon martyre ! 

Mais las! mon ccetir je n'en puis oter; 

Et grand affolage 
M'est d'espe'rer 
Mais tel servage 
Donne courage 
A tout endurer. 

* If lusty Love should go in quest of beauty, 
Where should he find it fairer than in Blanche? 
If zealous Love should go in search of virtue, 
Where should he find it purer than in Blanche? 
If Love, ambitious, sought a match of birth, 
Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanche 



TBI 1 K< HI'. A HOURS. t? 

Bl poll oommenl ottblier • 

Sa l)(':iuti ; , -mi bion dire, 
Kt bod tree doux regarder? 
Aliens aime moii martyre? " 

Princesses .-muI ladies of rank entered (lie bftl 

Df poesy, and vanquished, on almost every occasion 
the Troubadours of the other sex. For instance^ 
that Countess of Champagne, who presided with 
such eYdat in one of the courtB of love ; Beatrice 
Countess of Provence, the mother of four queens, 
among whom was Berengaria of England ; Clara 
d'Anduse, one of whose songs is translated by 
Sismondi; a certain Dame Castellosa, who in a 

pathetic remonstrance to some ungrateful lover, 
assures him that if he forsakes her for another, 
and leaves her to die, he will commit a heinous sin 
before the faee of God and man ; that charming 
Comtesse de Die, of whom more presently, and 
others innumerable, " tout homines que femmes, la 
pluspart gentilshommes et Seigneurs de Places, 
amoreux des Roynes, Imperatriees, Duchesses, 
Marquises, Comtesses, et gentils-fcmmes ; desquelles 
les maris s'estimaient grandement heureux quand 
nos poetes leurs addressaient quelque chant nou- 
veau et notre langue Provencal." The said poets 
being rewarded by these debonnaire husbands with 
rich dresses, horses, armor, and gold :* and by the 
ladies with praise, thanks, courteous words, and 

* La plus honourable recompence qu'ct pouTait faire aux dlta 
poStoe, 6tait qu'on leur fourni.-»saii de clraps, chevaux, armurs, M 
urgent. 



THE LOVES OF 



Bweet smiles, and very often, " altra cosa piu cara." 
The biography of these Troubadours generally 
commences with the same phrase — Such a one 
was " gentilhomme et chevalier," and was " pris 
d'amour " for such a lady, always named, who was 
the wife of such a lord, and in whose honor and 
praise he composed " maintes belles et doctes 
chansons." In these " chansons," — for all the ama- 
tory poetry of those times was sung to music, — we 
have love and romantic adventure oddly enough 
mixed up with piety and devotion, such as were 
the mode in an age when religion ruled the imagi- 
nation and the opinions of men, without in any 
degree restraining the passions or influencing the 
conduct. One Troubadour tells us, that when he 
beholds the face of his mistress, he crosses himself 
with delight and gratitude ; another pathetically 
entreats a priest to dispense him from his vows of 
love to a certain lady, whom he loved no longer ; 
the lady being the wife of another, one would 
imagine that the dispensation should rather have 
been required in the first instance. Arnaldo de 
Daniel, unable to soften the obdurate heart of hia 
mistress, performs penance, and celebrates six (or 
as some say, a thousand) masses a day, " en priant 
Dieu de pouvoir acquerier la grace de sa dame," 
and burns lamps before the Virgin, and consecrates 
tapers for the same purpose : the lady with whom 
he was thus piously in love, was Cyberna, the wife 
of Guillaume de Bouille. This was something lik# 
the incantations and sacrifices of the classic poets 



Tin: i i:<»ri; \i)«)!i:s. 2!- 

tfho familiarly mixed op their mythology with their 

Unotirs ; hut in a spirit as dill'm cut as the allegori- 
cal rapid of these chivalrous poets is from the 
ringed ami wanton deity of the Greeks ami Ro- 
mans. Pierre Yidal sees a vi~ : < )M of Love, whom 

he describe! as a young knight, fair and fresh as 
the day, crowned with a wreath of (lowers instead 
of a helmet; and mounted on a palfrey as white 
as snow, with a saddle of jasper, and spurs of 
chalcedony; his squires and attendants are Merely 
Pm/f ur, and Loyawti. Sir Cupid on horseback, 
with his saddle and his spur--, attended by Gentle- 
Qess, Modesty, and Good Faith, is a novel divinity. 
— Thus, among the Greeks, Love was attended ly 

the Graces, and among the Troubadours by the 

Virtues, In the same spirit of allegory, but touched 
with a more classic elegance, we have Petrarch's 
Cupid, driving his fiery car in triumph, followed by 
a shadowy host of captives to his power, — the 
heroes who had confessed and the poets who had 
lung his might. 

Vidi un vittorioso e sommo duce, 

Pur com' un di color ch' in Campidoglio 

Trionfal carro a gran gloria conduce. 

***** 
Quattro destrier via piii che neve bianchi: 
Sopr' un carro di foco un garzon crudo 
Con arco in mano, e con saette a' fianchi- 

A.nd yet more finished is Spenser's " Masque of 
Cupi.l," in the third book of the Fairy Queen 



10 THE LOVES OF 

where Love, as in the antique gem, is mounted on 
ft lion, preceded by minstrels, carolling 

A lay of love's delight with sweet concent, 

attended by Fancy, Desire, Hope, Fear, and Doubt 
and followed by Care, Repentance, Shame, Strife, 
Sorrow, &c. — The vivid colors in which these im- 
aginary personages are depicted, the image of the 
god " uprearing himself," and looking round with 
disdain upon the troop of victims and slaves who 
surround him, the rattling of his darts, as he shakes 
them in defiance and in triumph, and " claps on 
nigh his colored wings twain," forms altogether a 
most finished and gorgeous picture ; such as Ru- 
oens should have painted, as far as his pencil, rain- 
bow dipt, could have reflected the animated pageant 
to the eye. 

The extravagance of passion and boundless de- 
votion to the fair sex, which the Troubadours sang 
in their lays, they not unfrequently illustrated by 
their actions; and while the knowledge of the 
first is confined to a few antiquarians, the latter 
Btill survive in the history and the traditions of 
their province. One of these (Guillaume de la 
Tour) having lost the object of his love, under- 
went, during a whole year, the most cruel and 
unheard-of penances, in the hope that Heaven 
might be won to perform a miracle in his favor, and 
restore her to his arms ; at length he died broken* 
nearted on her tomb.* Another,f beloved by a 
* Millot, vol. ii. p. 148. t Richard de BarbedLra. 



certain princess, in -nmc unfortanate mora ol breaks 
■is vow of fidelity, and unable to appease 1 1 1 * - in- 
iignadoo of bis mistress, be retires to a forest, 
:) tikis himself a < • « 1 1 > i u of boughs, and turns hermit, 
saving firsl made a solemn vow thai be will never 
lease his Bolitude till be is received intt iavor oy 
his offended Love. Being one of the most cele- 
brated and popular Troubadours <>f his province, 
all the knights and the Ladies sympathize with hia 
misfortunes: they find themselves terribly ennuyes 
in the absence of the poet who was accustomed to 
vaunt their charms and their deeds of prowess; 
and at the end of two years they send a deputation, 
entreating him to return, — but in vain: they then 
address themselves to the lady, and humbly solicit 
the pardon of the offender, whose disgrace in her 
sight has thrown a whole province into mourning. 
Vhe princess at Length relents, but upon conditions 
"Inch appear in these unromantic times equally 
extraordinary and difficult to fulfil. She requires 
mat a hundred brave knights, and a hundred fair 
dames, pledged in love to each other, (s'aimant 
d'anionr) should appear before her on their knees, 
and with joined hands supplicate for mercy: the 
conditions are fulfilled : the hundred pair of lovera 
are tound to go through the ceremony, and the 
Troubadour receives his pardon.* 

The story of Peyre de liusr, "gentilhomme et 
Trobadour," might be termed a satirical romance, 
iif 3 we not know that it is a plain fact, related with 

* Millot, vol. iii. p. 86.— Guiuguenfe, vol. i. p. 280. 



THE LOVES O* 

perfect simplicity. He devotes himself to a lady 
of the noble Italian family of Carraccioli, and in her 
praise he composes, as usual, " maintes belles et 
doctes chansons : " — but the lady seems to have had 
a taste for magnificence and pleasure ; and the 
poet, in order to find favor in her eyes, expends 
his patrimony in rich apparel, banquets, and joustes 
in her honor. The lady, however, continues inex- 
orable ; and Peyre de Ruer takes the habit of a 
pilgrim and wanders about the country. He ar- 
rives in the holy week at a certain church, and 
desires of the cure permission to preach to his con- 
gregation of penitents: — he ascends the pulpit, 
and recites with infinite fervor and grace one of 
his ©wn chansons d'amour, — for, says the chronicle 
" autre chose ne scavait," " he knew nothing better." 
The people, mistaking it for an invocation to the 
Virgin Mary or the Saints, are deeply affected and 
edified; eyes are seen to weep that never wept 
before ; the most impenitent hearts are suddenly 
softened : he concludes with an exhortation in the 
same strain — and then descending from the pulpit, 
places himself at the door, and holding out his hat 
for the customary alms, his delighted congregation 
fill it to overflowing with pieces of silver. Peyer 
de Ruer forthwith casts off his pilgrim's gown, 
and in a new and splendid dress, and with a new 
gong in his hand, he presents himself before the 
lady of his love, who, charmed by his gay attire 
not less than by his return, receives him most gra» 
liouslv, and bestows on him " maintes caresses." 



Tin: TBOI B LDOUB8. 33 

I m 'ist observe that the biographer of this Peyei 
iK' Ruer, himself ;i churchman, does not appear in 
the 1 * "<is t scandalized or surprised at this very novel 
mode of recruiting his finances and obtaining the 
favor of the lady ; but gives us fairly to understand, 
that after such a proof of lai/aiitc, he should have 
thoughl it quite contrary to all rule if* she had >iill 
rejected the addresses of this gent il Troubadour. 

Jauffred (or Geffrey) de Rude! is yet more 
famous, and his story will strikingly illustrate the 
manners of those times. Rude! was the favorite 
minstrel of Geffrey de Platagenet Bretagne, the 
rider brother of our Richard C\eur de Lion, and 
like the Royal Richard, a patron of music and 
poetry. During the residence of Rudel at the 
court of England, where he resided in great honor 
and splendor, caressed for his talents, and loved 
for the gentleness of his manners, he heard con- 
tinually the praises of a certain Countess of Tri- 
poli, lamed throughout Europe for her munificent 
hospitality to the poor Crusaders. The pilgrims 
and soldiers of the Cross, who were returning way- 
worn, sick, and disabled, from the burning plains 
of Asia, were relieved and entertained by this 
devout and benevolent Countess; and they repaid 
her generosity, with all the enthusiasm of grati- 
tude, by spreading her fame throughout Christen- 
dom. 

These reports of her beauty and her beneficence, 
tonstantly repeated, fired the susceptible fancy of 
Rudel : without having seen her, he fell passion- 

3 



34 THE LOVES OP 

utely in love with her, and unable to bear any 
longer the torments of absence, he undertook a 
pilgrimage to visit this unknown lady of his love, 
in company with JBertrand d'Allamanon, anothei 
celebrated Troubadour of those days. He quitted 
the English court in spite of the entreaties and 
expostulations of* Prince Geffrey Platagenet, and 
sailed for the Levant. But so it chanced, that fall- 
ing grievously sick on the voyage, he lived only 
till his vessel reached the shores of Tripoli. The 
Countess being told that a celebrated poet had 
just arrived in her harbour, who was dying for her 
love, immediately hastened on board, and taking 
his hand, entreated him to live for her sake. Rudel, 
already speechless, and almost in the agonies of 
death, revived for a moment at this unexpected 
grace; he was just able to express, by a last 
effort, the excess of his gratitude and love, and 
expired in her arms : thereupon the Countess wept 
bitterly, and vowed herself to a life of penance 
for the loss she had caused to the world* She 

* "Depuis ne fut jamais veue faire bonne chere," says the old 
chronicle. — I am tempted to add the description of the first and 
last interview of the Countess and her lover in the exquisite old 
French, of which the antique simplicity and naivete are untrans- 
latable. 

"En cet estat fut conduit au port de Trypolly, etl& arrive, son 
compagnon feist (Jit) entendre a la Comtesse la venue de Pelerin 
malade. La Comtesse estant venue en la nef, prit le poete par la 
main; et lui, sachant quec'estait la Comtesse, incontinent apreg 
le doult et graciex accueil, recouvra ses esprits, la i emercte. de o« 
qu'elle lui avait recouvre la vie, et lui diet : ' Tres illustre et vei 
frueuse princesse, je ne plaindrai point la mort oresque' — efc u* 



Tin; TROm kDCUBS. 96 

lommaaded that the lasl song which Elude] had 
composed in her honor, should be transcribed in 
letters of gold, and carried it always in her bosom; 
rod l>i s remains were enclosed in a magnificent 
mausoleum of porphyry, with an Arabic inscrip- 
tion, commemorating his genius and his love for 
her. 

It is in allusion to this well-known story, that 
Petrarch has introduced Rude! into Trionfo d 
Amore. 

Gianfre Rude] eh' uso la vela e '1 remo, 
A cercar la sun morte. 

The song which the minstrel composed when h« 
fell sick on this romantic expedition, and found hig 
itrength begin to fail, and which the Countess wore, 
folded within her vest, to the end of her life, is 
extant, and has been translated into most of the 
languages of Europe; of these translations Sismon- 
di's is the best, preserving the original and curious 
Arrangement of the rhymes, as well as the piety, 
naivete, and tenderness of the sentiment. 

Irrite" dolent partirai 

Si ne vois cet amour de loin, 

Et ne Bais quandje le verrai 

Car sont par trop nos terres loin. 
Dieu, qui toutes choses as fait 
Et formns cet amour si loin, 
Donu.i force a mon cneur, car ai 

jcarant nchever son propos, sa maladie 8*a!<jrissant et augment- 
ing rendit I'espxft entre le=i mains de laConitesae. — Vies dts plui 
'M4bre$ Pontes ProvenQaitr, p 24. 



88 THE LOVES OF 

L'espoir de voir m' amour au loin. 
Ah, Seigneur, tenez pour bien vrai 
L' amour qu'ai pour elle de loin. 
Car pour un bien que j'en aural 
J'ai mille maux, tant je suis loin. 
Ja d'autr'ampur ne jouirai 
Sinon de cet amour de loin — 
Qu'une plus belle je n'en scais 
En lieu qui soit ni pres ni loin ! 

Mrs. Piozzi and others have paraphrased this 
little song, but in a spirit so different from the an- 
tique simplicity of the original, that I shall venture 
to give a version, which has at least the merit of 
being as faithful as the different idioms of the lan- 
guages will allow; I am afraid, however, that it 
will not appear worthy of the honor which the 
Countess conferred on it. 

" Grieved and troubled shall I die, 

If I meet not my love afar ; 
Alas ! I know not that I e'er 

Shall see her — for she dwells Afar. 
God! that didst all things create, 

And formed my sweet love now afar; 
Strengthen my heart, that I may hope 

To behold her face who is afar. 
Lord ! believe how very true 

Is my love for her, alas ! afar, 
Tho' for each joy a thousand pains 

I bear, because I am so far. 

Bertrand d'AUamanon, whom I have mentioned 
as the companion of Kudel on his romantic expe- 
dition, has left us a little ballad, remarkable for th« 



Till ikiii B tDOUKB. 83 

extreme refinement of the sentiment, which u 
[]nite a la Petrarqne : he gives it the fantastic title 
Dt a demi cAanMn, for a very fantastical reasons it 
i.s thus translated in Millot, (vol. i. p. 390.) 

Another love I'll never have, 

Bavs only she who la afar, 
For fairer one l aever anew 

In places near, nor yet alar." 

u On rent savoiT pourqnoije t'ais mm demi chan- 
ton? 0*681 parceque je n'ai qutm demi Bujet de 
chanter. II n'v a oTamour qne de ma part; la 
dame quej'aime ae veul pas m'aimer! maia an <lc- 
laut dea out qu'elle me refuse, je prendre! h's non 
qn'eDe me prodigne: — espe'rer aoprls (Telle vaut 
minix que jouir (tree tout autre!" 

This is exactly the sentiment of Petrarch : 

Pur mi oonsola, die morir per lei 
fifeglio £ cho gioir d'altra — 

But it is one of those thoughts which spring in the 
heart, and might often be repeated without once 
being borrowed. 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE LOVES OF THE TROUBADOURS. 

COXTLNUED. 

In striking contrast to the tender and gentle 
iudel, we have the ferocious Bertrand de Born: 



38 THE LOVES OF 

he, too, was one of the most celeorated Trouba« 
dours of his time. As a petty feudal sovereign, he 
was, partly by the events of the age, more by his 
own fierce and headlong passions, plunged in con- 
tinual wars. Nature, however, had made him a 
poet of the first order. In these days he would 
have been another Lord Byron ; but he lived in a 
terrible and convulsed state of society, and it was 
only in the intervals snatched from his usual pur- 
suits, — that is, from burning the castles, and ravag- 
ing the lands of his neighbours, and stirring up re- 
bellion, discord, and bloodshed all around him, — 
that he composed a vast number of lays, serventes, 
and chansons ; some breathing the most martial, and 
even merciless spirit ; others devoted to the praise 
and honor of his love, or rather loves, as full of 
submissive tenderness and chivalrous gallantry. 

He first celebrated Elinor Plantagenet, the sister 
of his friend and brother in arms and song, Rich- 
ard Coeur de Lion ; and we are expressly told that 
Richard was proud of the poetical homage ren- 
dered to the charms of his sister by this knightly 
Troubadour, and that the Princess was far from 
being insensible to his admiration. Only one of 
the many songs addressed to Elinor has been pre- 
served ; from which we gather, that it was com« 
posed by Bertrand in the field, at a time when his 
army was threatened with famine, and the poet 
himself was suffering from the pangs of hunger 
Elinor married the Duke of Saxony, and Bertrand 
•'.hose foi his next love the beautiful Maenz de 



fHK TIMM'I! AImHKS. 35 

|fontagna< , daughter of the Viscount of Turenne 
ami wife of Talleyrand de Perigord. The ladj 
accepted his service, and acknowledged him as her 
Knight ; bnl evil tongues having attempted to sow 
dissension between the lovers, Bertrand addressed 
to her a song, in which he defends himself from the 
imputation of inconstancy, in a style altogether 
characteristic and original. The warrior poet, 
borrowing from the objects of his daily cares, am- 
bition and pleasure, phrases to illustrate and en- 
hance the expression of his love, wishes "that he 
may lose his favorite hawk in her first flight; that 
a falcon may stoop and bear her off, as she sits 
upon his wrist, and tear her in his sight, if the 
sound of his lady's voice be not dearer to him 
than all the gifts of love from another." — "That 
he may stumble with his shield about his neck ; 
that his helmet may gall his brow ; that his bridle 
may be too long, his stirrups too short ; that he may 
be forced to ride a hard-trotting horse, and find his 
groom drunk when he arrives at his gate, if there 
be a word of truth in the accusations of his enemies : 
— that he may not have a denier to stake at the 
gaming-table, and that the dice may never more 
be favorable to him, if ever he had swerved from 
his faith : — that he may look on like a dastard, and 
see his lady woced and Avon by another; — that the 
winds may fail Lim at sea ; — that in the battle he 
(nay be the first to fly, if he who has slandered him 
-toes not lie in his throat," &c, and so on through 
»even or ehrht stanzas. 



40 THE LOVES OP 

Bertrand de Born exercised in his Lme a fata. 
influence on the counsels and politics of England, 
A close and ardent friendship existed between him 
and young Henry Plantagenet, the eldest son of 
our Henry the Second ; and the family dissensions 
which distracted the English Court, and the unnat- 
ural rebellion of Henry and Richard against theif 
father, were his work. It happened some time 
after the death of Prince Henry, that the King of 
England besieged Bertrand de Born in one of his 
castles : the resistance was long and obstinate, but 
at length the warlike Troubadour was taken pris- 
oner and brought before the King, so justly in- 
censed against him, and from whom he had cer- 
tainly no mercy to expect. The heart of Henry 
was still bleeding with the wounds inflicted by his 
ungrateful children, and he saw before him, and in 
his power, the primary cause of their misdeeds and 
his own bitter sufferings. Bertrand was on the 
point of being led out to death, when by a single 
word he reminded the King of his lost son, and 
the tender friendship which had existed between 
them * The chord was struck which never ceased 
to vibrate in the parental heart of Henry ; burst- 
ing into tears, he turned aside, and commanded 
Bertrand and his followers to be immediately set 
ai liberty ; he even restored to Bertrand his castle 
and his lands, " in the name of his dead son." It is 
such traits as thes3, occurring at every page, whici 

* Le Roi lui demande, " S'il a perdu raison ? " il ltd repond 
Helas, oui! c'est depuis lam^rt du Prince Henri, votre fil*! " 



mi- ritOUBAJDOUBfl 4t 

«nd to Ate chronicles of this stormy period bu in 
torest overpowering the horror they would otherwiM 
Bxcite : for then all the best, as veil as the worst of 
human passions were called into play. In tins tem- 
pestuous commingling of all the jarring elements 
of society, we have those Btrange approximations 
of the most opposite sentiments, — implacable re- 
venge and sublime forgiveness ; — gross licentious- 
ness and delicate tenderness) — barbarism and re- 
finement ; — treachery and fidelity — which remind 
one of th.it heterogeneous mass tossed up by a 

stormy mran ; heaps of pearls, unvalued gems, 
Wedges Of gold, mingled with dead men's bones, 
and all the slimy, loathsome, and monotonous pro- 
duction of the deep, which during a calm remain 

together concealed and unknown in its unfathomed 
abysses. 

To return from this long similitude of Bertrand 
de Born : he concluded his stormy career in a 
manner very characteristic of the times; for be 
turned monk, and died in the odor of sanctity. 
But neither his late devotion, nor his warlike hero- 
ism, nor his poetic fame, could rescue him from the 
severe justice of Dante, who has visited his crimes 
and his violence with so terrible a judgment, that 
we forget, while we thrill with horror, that the 
primes were real, the penance only imaginary 
Dante, in cm of the circles of the Inferno, meets 
Bertrand de Born carrying his severed head, lan- 
tern wL<e, in his hand ; — the phantom lifts it up by 
•he hair, and the ghastly lips unclose to confess the 



42 THE LOVES OP 

tause and the justice of this horrible and unheard 
of penance. 



-Or vedi la pena molesta 



Tu che spirando vai veggendo i morti; 
Vedi s'alcuna e grande come questa. 

E perche tu di me novella porti, 
Sappi ch' i' son Bertram dal Bomio, quelli 
Che diedi al Ke giovane i ma' conforti, 

P feci '1 padre e '1 figlio in se ribelli : 
* * * # 

Perch'io partii cosl giunte persone, 
Partito porto il mio cerebro, lasso ! 
Dal suo principio ch 'e 'n questo troncone. 

Cosl s'osserva in me lo contrappasso.* 

Now behold 
This grievous torment, thou, who breathing goest 
To spy the dead : behold, if any else 
Be terrible as this, — and that on earth 
Thou may'st bear tidings of me, know that I 
Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John 
The counsel mischievous Father and son 

I set at mutual war: 

Spurring them on maliciously to strife. 
For parting those so closely knit, my brain 
Parted, alas ! I cany from its source 
That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the law 
Of retribution fiercely works in me.f 

Pierre Vidal, whose description of love I have 
quoted before, was one of the most, extraordinary 

* Inferno, c. xxviii. 

t Carey's translation of Dante. Mr. Carey reads Re Gioranna 
Instead of Re gioyane : — King John, instead of Prince Henry. 



I in. liiOUBADCM SB 4S 

iharacten of bis time, a kind oi poetical Hon 
Quixotte: — bis brain was turned with love, poetry, 

mill \. -in it y : he believed himself the beloved of all the 
Bur, the mirror of knighthood, and the prince oi 
rroabadoura. Vet in the midst of all his extrav- 
agances, he possessed exquisite skill in his art, and 
was doI surpassed by any of the poets of those days, 
far the harmony, delicacy, and tenderness of hi* 
amatory effusions. J Ic chose for his first love the 
beautiful wife of the VTscomte de Marseilles: the 
lady, unlike some of the Princesses of her time, 
distinguished between the peel and the man, and 
as he presumed tOO for on the encouragement be- 
stowed on him in the former Capacity, he was ban- 
ished: he then followed Richard the First to the 
crusade. The verses he addressed to the lady from 
the Island of Cyprus are still preserved. The folly 
of Yidal, or rather the derangement of his imagi- 
nation, subjected him to some of those mystifications 
which remind us of Don Quixotte and Sancho, in 
the court of the laughter-loving Duchess. For in- 
stance, Richard and his followers amused them- 
selves at Cyprus, by marrying Yidal to a beautiful 
Greek girl of no immaculate reputation, whom 
they introduced to him as the niece of the Greek 
Emperor. Yidal, in right of his wife, immediately 
took the title of Emperor, assumed the purple, 
ordered a throne to be carried before him, and 
played the most fantastic antics of authority. Nor 
vas this the greatest of his extravagances: on bis 
♦eturn to Provence, he chose for the second object 



44 THE LOVES OF 

of his amorous and poetical devotion, a lady whose 
name happened to be Louve de Penautier : in her 
honor he assumed the name of Loup, and farther 
to merit the good graces of his " Dame" and to do 
honor to the name he had adopted, he dressed 
himself in the hide of a wolf, and caused himself 
to be hunted in good earnest by a pack of doo^s : 
he was brought back exhausted and half dead to 
the feet of his mistress, who appears to have been 
more moved to merriment than to love by this new 
and ridiculous exploit. 

In general, however, the Troubadours had sel- 
dom reason to complain of the cruelty of the 
ladies to whom they devoted their service and their 
songs. The most virtuous and illustrious women 
thought themselves justified in repaying, with 
smiles and favors, the poetical adoration of their 
lovers ; and this lasted until the profession of Trou 
badour was dishonored by the indiscretions, follies, 
and vices of those who assumed it. Thus Peyrols, 
a famous Provencal poet, who was distinguished in 
the court of the Dauphin d'Auvergne, fell passion- 
ately in love with the sister of that Prince, (the 
Baronne de Mercoeur,) and the Dauphin, (himself 
a Troubadour) proud of the genius of his minstrel 
and of the poetical devotion paid to his sister, de- 
sired her to bestow on her lover all the encourage- 
ment and favor which was consistent with her dig- 
nity. The lady, however, either misunderstood 
her instructions, or found it too difficult to obej 
them ■ the seducing talents and tender verses of 



mi rBOUBADOURB. 45 

|}n:« gentil Troubadour prevailed over berdigiity: 
• — Peyrols was beloved; bul he was art sufficiently 
discreet, rhe sudden change in the tone and stj ie 
Df his tongs betrayed him, and In- was banished. A 
great number of liis verses, celebrating the Dame 
de Mercosur, are preserved by St. Palaye, anil 
translated by Millot 

Bernard de Ventradour was beloved by Elinor 

do Guienne, afterwards the wife of our Henry the 

md, and the mother of Richard the First:— • 

I have before observed the poetical penchants of 

iill Elinor's children, which they seem tO have in 
herited from their mother. 

Sordello of Mantua, whose name is familiar to 
alt the readers of Dante, as occurring in one of the 

(ine-t passages of this great poem * was an Italian, 
he t like all the best ports of his day, wrote in the 

Provencal tongue: he is said to have carried off 

the sister of that modern Phalaris, the tyrant Y./.- 
zelino of Padua. There is a very elegant ballad 
(ballata) by Sordello, translated in Millot's collec- 
tion ; it is properly a kind of rondeau, the first 
line being repeated at the end of every stanza ; 
" I [elas ! a quoi me servent mes yens ? " — " Alas 1 
wherefore have I eyes ? M — It describes the pleas- 
ures of the Spring, which are to him as nothing, 
'n the absence of the only object on which his eyes 
can dwell with delight. The arrangement of the 
rhymes in this pastoral song is singularly elegani 
md musical. 

• Purgatorio, o. i\. 



46 THE LOVES OF 

Lastly, as illustrating the history of the amatory 
poetry of this age, I extract from Nostradamus * 
the story of the young Countess de Die ; she loved 
and was beloved by the Chevalier d'Adhemar: 
(ancestor I presume to that Chevalier d'Adhemar 
who figures in the letters of Madame de Sevigne.) 
it was not in this case the lover who celebrated the 
"harms of his mistress, but the lady, who, being an 
illustrious female Troubadour, " docte en poesie," 
celebrated the exploits and magnanimity of hei 
.over. The Chevalier, proud of such a distinction, 
eaused the verses of his mistress to be beautifully 
copied, and always carried them in his bosom ; and 
whenever he was in the company of knights and 
ladies, he enchanted them by singing a couplet 
in his own praise out of his lady's book. The pub- 
licity thus given to their love, was quite in the 
spirit of the times, and does not appear to have in- 
jured the reputation of the Countess for immacu- 
late virtue,! which Adhemar would probably have 
defended with lance and spear, against any slander- 
ous tongue which had dared to defame her. 

The conclusion of this romantic story is melan. 



* Vies des plus celebres poetes Provencaux. 

t Agnes de Navarre Cointesse de Foix, was beloved by Gkiillaume 
die Machaut, a French poet; he became jealous, and sbe sent heg 
Dwn confessor to him to complain of the injustice of his suspicions, 
*nd to swear that she was still faithful to him. She required 
tlso, of her lover, to write and to publish in verse the history of 
their love; and she preserved, at the same time, in the eyes of hei 
ktuband and of the world, the character of a virtuous Princes* 
— Ses Foscolo — Essays on Petrarch 



i ii i; i ROUB M>"i BS. 47 

•holy. Adhemar beard a fata report, that the 
Countess, whose purity and constancy he had so 
proudly maintained, bad cast away her Bmiles on a 
rival : he Pel] nek wnli grief and bitterness of heart : 
the Countess, being informed of his Btate, Bel oat, 
accompanied by her mother, and a long train of 
knights and ladies, to visit and comfort him with 
assurances of her fidelity; but when Bhe appeared 

at liis bedside and drew the curtain, it was already 

too late: Adhemar expired in her arms. The 

Countess took the\eil in tin- convent of St. Bo> 
nore, and died the B ame year of fjriej] says tlio 

chronicle ; — and to conclude the tragedy charao* 

teristieally, the mother of the young Countess 

Duried her in the same grave with her lover, an<1 
raised a superb monument to the memory of both. 

The Countess tie Die was one of the ten ladies 
a ho formed the Court of Love, held at Pierre feu, 
(about 1194,) and in which Estifanie de Baux pre- 
sided. 

These Courts of Love, and the scenes they gave 
rise to, were certainly open to ridicule; the " belled 
ct subtiles questions d'amour" which were there 
solemnly discussed, and decided by ladies of rank, 
were often absurd, and the decisions something 
worse: still, the fanciful influence they gave to 
women on these subjects, ami the gallantry they in- 
troduced into the intercourse between the sexes, 
had a tendency to soften the manners, to refine 
Ae language, and to tinge the sentiments and pa* 
oons with a kind of philosophical mysticism. But 



lb THE LOVES OF 

these gay and gallant Courts of Love, the Proven* 
eal Troubadours, their lays, which for two centuries 
had been the delight of all ranks of people, and 
had spread music, love, and poetry through the 
land ; — their language, which had been the chosen 
dialect of gallantry, in every court in Europe, — ■ 
were at once swept from the earth. 

The glory of the Provencal literature began 
when Provence was raised to an independent Fief, 
under Count Berenger I. about the year 1100 ; it 
lasted two entire centuries, and ended when that 
fine and fertile country became the scene of the 
horrible crusade against the Albigenses ; when the 
Inquisition sent forth its exterminating fiends to 
scatter horror and devastation through the land, 
and the wars and rapacity of Charles of Anjou, its 
new possessor, almost depopulated the country. 
The language which had once celebrated deeds of 
love and heroism, now sang only of desolation and 
despair. The Troubadours, in a strain worthy of 
their gentle and noble calling, generally advocated 
the par*, of the Albigenses, and the oppressed of 
whatever faith ; and in many provinces, in Lom- 
bardy especially, their language was interdicted, 
lest it might introduce heretical or rebellious prin- 
ciples ; gradually it fell into disuse, and at length 
into total oblivion. The Troubadours, no longe? 
Welcomed in castle or in hall, where once 



They poured to lords and ladies gay, 
The unpremeditated lay, 



rill i SOUB IDOG R8. 49 

ten- degraded to wandering minstrels and itinerant 

jugglers. An attempt W8fl made, al" >ut a rent nry 

later, (1824) by the institution of the Flora! (James 
at Thoulouse, to keep alive this high strain of 
poetical gallantry. They were formerly celebrated 
vith great splendor, and a shadow of this institu- 
tion is, I believe, still kept up, but it has degener- 
ated into a mere school of affectation. The 

anginal race of the Troubadours was extinct long 

before Clemence d'Isaure and her golden violet 
were thought of. 

I cannot quit the subject of the Troubadours 
without one or two concluding observations. To 

these rude bards we owe sonic new notions of 
poetical justice, which never seem to have occurred 
to Horace or Longinus, and are certainly more 
magnanimous, as well as more true to moral feel- 
in-, than those which prevailed among the polished 
Greeks and Romans. For instance, the generous 
Hector and the constant Troilus are invariably 
exalted above the subtle Ulysses and the savage 
Achilles. Theseus, Jason, and jEneas, instead of 
being represented as classical heroes and pious 
favorites of the gods, are denounced as recreant 
knights and false traitors to love and beauty. In 
the estimation ot these chivalrous bards, a woman's 
tears outweighed the exploits of demi-gods ; all the 
glory of Theseus is forgotten in sympathy for 
Ariadne ; and .Eneas, in the old ballads and ro- 
mances, is not, after all his perfidy, dismissed to 
Uappiness and victory, but is plagued by the fiendo, 



60 THE LOVES OF 

haunted by poor Dido's " grimly ghost," and 
finally, doomed to perish miserably.* Nor does 
Jason fare better at their hands : in all the old 
poets he is consigned to just execration. In Dante, 
we have a magnificent and a terrible picture ot 
him, doomed to one of the lowest circles of hell, 
amid a herd of vile seducers, who betrayed the 
trusting faith, or bartered the charms of women 
Demons scourge him up and down, without mere f 
or respite, in vengeance for the wrongs of Hypsipylfl 
and Medea. 

Guar da quel grande che viene 

E per dolor, non par lagrima spanda; 

Quanto aspetto reale ancor ritiene ! 

Quelli e Giasone — 

— Con segni e con parole ornate 

Isifile inganno 

Tal colpa a tal martiro lui condanna, 

Ed anche di Medea si fa vendetta. 

Inferno, C. 16 

" Behold that lofty shade, who this way tends, 
And seems too woe-begone to drop a tear; 
How yet the regal aspect he retains ! 
'T is Jason — 

— He who with tokens and fair witching words 
Hypsipyle beguil'd — 

tiuch is the guilt condemns him to this pain; 
Here too Medea's injuries are avenged!" — 

Cakey. 

And Chaucer in relating the same story, begin* 
With a burst of generous indignation : 

* Percy's Iteliques. 



1 in rHOUBADOUfl fli 

Thou rOOt * '"■'•■' , Jason, 

Thou slayer, devourer, and confusion 
. gentil ore* 

The story of this double perfidy ia told and com- 
nented on in the Bame chivalrous feeling; and tha 
>ld poet concludes with characteristic tenderneei 
and simplicity — 

This was tho mode of Loving, and guerdon 
That Medea received of Duke Jason, 

it for her truth and for her kindnesse, 
That loved him better than herself I gucssel 
And lefts her father and her heritage; 
And of Jason this is the vassalage 
That in his dayes were never none yfound, 
So false a lover going on the ground. # 

It is in the same beautiful spirit of reverence to 
the best virtues of our sex, that Alcestis, the wife 
sf Admetus, who aacrificed her life to prolong that 
of her husband, is honored above all other heroines 
of classical story. She has even been elevated 
into a kind of presiding divinity, — a second Venus, 
with nobler attributes, — and in her new existence 
is feigned to be the consort and companion of 
Love himself. 

Another peculiarity of the poetry of the middle 
Igee, was the worship paid to the daisy, (la Mar- 
guerite,) as symbolical of all that is lovely in 
women. Why so lowly a dower should take prece* 

• Root, i a. example or ocginner. 



52 THE LOVES OF 

Hence of the queenly lily and the sumptuous rose 
»s not very clear ; but it seems to have originated 
with one of the old Provencal poets, whose mis- 
tress bore the name of Marguerite ; and afterwards 
it became a fashion and a kind of poetical my- 
thology.* 

Thus in the " Flower and the Leafe " of Chau- 
cer, the ladies and knights of the flower approach 
finging a chorus in honor of the Daisy, of which 
the burden is "si douce est la Marguerite " 



CHAPTER V. 

GUIDO CAVALCANTI AND MANDETTA, 
CINO DA PISTOJA AND SELVAGGTA. 

Amatory poetry was transmitted from the Pro- 
vencals to the Italians and Sicilians, among whom 
the language of the Troubadours had long been 
cultivated, and their songs imitated, but in style 
yet more affected and recherche. Few of the 
Italian poets who preceded Dante, are interesting 
even in a mere literary point of view : of these, 
only one or two have shed a reflected splendor 
tound the object of their adoration. Guido Caval 

* See the notes to Chaucer, the works o f Froissart, and M6 
taoirs sur les Troubadours. 



i 111. i BO I B m>«»i BB. 55 

rami, tlir Florentine, waj the early and favorite 
friend of Dante: being engaged in the factions of 

lii> native city, In- was forced on rfome emergency 
to quit it; and to escape the vengeance of the pre- 
vailing party, lit- undertook a pilgrimage to San 
Jago. Passing through Tolosa, lie fell in love with 
a beautiful Spanish girl, whom he has celebrated 
under the name of Mamleiia : 



In un bosohetto kroval pastareUa 

l'iii che lastella bella al mio parere, 
Capegli uvea biondetti e riciiutelli. 

Some of his songs and ballads have considerable 
grace and nature, but they were considered by 
himself as mere trifles. His grand work on which 
his fame long rested is, a " Canzone sopra l'Amore, n 
in which the subject is so profoundly and so philo- 
sophically treated, that seven voluminous com- 
mentaries in Latin and Italian have not yet 
enabled the world to understand it. 

The following sonnet is deservedly celebrated 
for the consummate beauty of the picture it pre- 
sents, and will give a fair idea of the p'atonic ex- 
travagance of the time. 

Chi 6 questa che vien ch' Ogni uom la mira 

Che fa tremar di oaritate l' a're? 

E mena seco amor, b! che parlare 

Null' uom ne puote: ma ciascun sospiro? 
Ahi dioi che sembra quando gli occhi gira* 

Dicalc Amor, ch' io 10I saprei coutare; 



&4 THE LOVES OF 

Cotanto d' umilta donna mi pare 

Che ciascun' altra inver di lei chiam' ir». 

Non si porria contar la sua piacenza; 
Che a lei s'inchina ogni gentil virtute, 
E la beltate per sua Dea la mostra. 

Non e si alta gia la mente nostra 
E non s'e posta in noi tanta salute 
Che propriamente n' abbian conoscenza! 

LITERAL TRANSLATION. 

" Who is this, on whom all men gaze as she approach- 
Bth! — who causeth the very air to tremble around hei 
with tenderness? — who leadeth Love by her side — ir 
whose presence men are dumb ; and can only sigh? Ah! 
Heaven! what power in every glance of those eyes. 
Love alone can tell ; for I have neither words nor skill ! 
She alone is the Lady of gentleness — beside her, all others 
seem ungracious and unkind. Who can describe hei 
sweetness, her loveliness ? to her every virtue bows, and 
beauty points to her as her own divinity. The mind of 
man cannot soar so high, nor is it sufficiently purified by 
divine grace to understand and appreciate ah her perfec- 
tions!" 

The vagueness of this portrait is a part of its 
beauty : — it is like a lovely dream — and probably 
never had any existence, but in the fancy of the 
l'oet. 

Cino da Pistoia enjoyed the double reputation 
of being the greatest doctor and teacher of the 
civil law, and the most famous poet of his timfe. 
He was also remarkable for his personal accom- 
plishments and his love of pleasure. There is a 






Tin; ritOUBADOUBS. 5X 

lonnel uliiili Dante addressed to Cino, reproaching 
tii in with being inconstant and volatile in love.* 
Apparently, this was after the death of the beau 
titul bticciarde < lt-i Selvaggi; or, as he calls her, 
his Selvaggia : she was of a aoble family of Pistoia, 
her father having been gonfaliere, and Leader of 
the faction of the Bianchi; and she was also cele- 
brated for ber poetical talents. It appears from a 
little madrigal of hers, which has been preserved, 
that though she tenderly returned the affection of 
her lover, it was without the knowledge of her 
haughty family. It is not distinguished for poetic 
power, luit has at least the charm of perfect frank- 
aeSfi and simplicity, and a kind of abandon that is 
tjuite bewitching. 

A MESSER CINO DA PISTOJA. 

Gentil mio sir, lo parlare amoroso 
Di voi si in allegranza mi mantene, 
Che dirvel non podia, ben lo sacciate, 

Perche del mio amor sete »iojoso, 
Di ci6 grand' allegria e gio' mi vene, 
Ed altro mai non haggio in volontate 
Fuor del vostro piacere ; 
Tutt' hora fate la vostra voglienza: 
Haggiate previdenza 
Voi, di celar la nostra desienza. 

u My gentle love and lord ! those tender wordi 
Of thine so fill my conscious heart with joy 

* Chi s' innaniora, siccomo voi fate 

Ed ad ognl piaoei si lega e scioglie 

Mostra ch' amor leggermente L seatt'. — Sow. 44 



fc6 THE LOVES OF 

— I cannot speak it — but thou kuow'st it well; 

Wherefore do thou rejoice in that deep love 

I bear thee, knowing that I have no thought 

But to fulfil thy will and crown thy wish ; 

— Watch thou — and hide our mutual hope from all ! " 

Meantime the parents of Kicciarda were exiled 
from Pistoia, by the faction of the Neri. They 
took refuge from their enemies in a little fortress 
among the Apennines, whither Cino followed them, 
and was received as a comforter amid their dis- 
tresses. Probably the days passed in this dreary 
abode, among the wild and solitary hills, when he 
assisted Ricciarda in her household duties, and in 
aiding and consoling her parents, were among the 
happiest of his life ; but the winter came, and with 
it many privations and many hardships. Their 
mountain retreat was ill calculated to defend them 
against the fury of the elements : Ricciarda drooped 
under the pressure of misery a:ad want, and her 
parents and her lover watched the gradual extinc- 
tion of life — saw the rose-hue fade from her cheek, 
and the light from her eye, till she melted from 
their arms into death ; then they buried her with 
tears, in a nook among the mountains. 

Many years afterwards, when Cino had reached 
the height of his fame, and had been crowned with 
wealth and honors by his native city, he had occa- 
sion to cross the Apennines on an embassy, and 
causing his suite to travel by another roaO, he 
made a pilgrimage alone to the tomb of his los* 
Selvaggia. This incident gave rise to the mos* 



ill!. FBOUBADOUJRF bl 

itriking af all hii compositions, which with great 
pathos and Bweetnesa describes hie feelings, when 
he flung himself down on her humble grave* tc 

weep over the recollection of their pasl happiness 

Id fu' in sull' alto <> in Mil l.cato nionto, 

Ove adora] baoiando il aanto 

1". oaddi in su queUa pietra, olms ' 

Ove 1' onestra pose la BUfl fronte; 
E ch' elhi ohiuse d 1 OgnJ virtd il Ibnte 

Quel giorno one <li morte acerbo p 

Fece la donna dello mio cor, — lasso I 

Gia plena tutta d' adornezae eonte. 
(>uivi ohiamai a queeta goisa Amore: 

" Dolce mio Dio, fa one qnlnci mi fcraggia 

La morte a Be, che qui giaoe il mio cor! " 
Ma pol one non m' intese il mio Bignore, 

Mi dispart!, pur ohiamando, Selvaggia 1 

L'alpe possai, con voce di dolore. 

The circumstance in the last stanza, M I rose up 
and went on my way, and passed the mountain 
summit, crying aloud 'Selvaggia!' in accents of 
despair," has a strong reality about it, and no 
doubt teas real. Her death took place about 131G. 

In the history of Italian poetry, Selvaggia is 
distinguished as the u bel nunier' una" — "the fair 
number one" — of the four celebrated women of 
that century — The others were Dante's Beatrice, 
Petrarch's Laura, and Boccaccio's Fiammetta. 

Every one who reads and admires Petrarch, will 
remember his beautiful Sonnet on the Death of 
2ino, beginning u Piangete Donne." 



&8 THE TROUBADOURS. 

I'erche P nostro amoroso messer Cino 
Novellamente s'e da noi partito 

In the venerable Cathedral at Pistoia, there ift 
ail ancient half-effaced bas-relief, representing 
Cino, surrounded by his disciples, to whom he i3 
explaining the code of civil law ; a little behind 
stands the figure of a female veiled, in a pensive 
attitude, which is supposed to represent Ricciarda 
de' Selvaggi. 

All these are alluded to by Petrarch in the Tri- 
onfo d' A more. 

Ecco Selvaggia, 
Ecco Cin da Pistoja: Guitton d'Arezzo, 
Ecco i due Guidi che gia furo in prezzo. 

The two Guidi are, Guido Guizzinello, and 
Guido Cavalcanti. Guitone was a famous monk, 
who is said to have invented the present form of 
the sonnet : to him also is attributed the discovery 
cf counterpoint, and the present system of musical 
notation. 

Of Conti's mistress nothing is known, but that 
she had the most beautiful hand in the world, 
whence the volume of poems written by her lover 
in her praise, is entitled, La Bella Mano, the fair 
hand. Conti lived some years later than Petrarch. 
I mention him merely to fill up the list of those 
ane^nt minor poets of Italy, whose names and 
lovna are still celebrated. 



LAUKA M 

CHAPTER VI. 

I. WKA. 

Tiikkk are BOme wlio doubt the reality of Po- 
bmrch's love, because it is expressed in numbers; 
md others, refining on this doubt, profess even to 
question whether his Laura, ever existed, except in 
the imagination and poetry of her lover. The 
first objection could only be made by the most pro- 
saic of commentators — some true "black-letter 
dog,"* — who had dustilied and mystified his facul- 
ties among old parchments. The most real and 
most fervent passion that ever fell under my own 
knowledge, was revealed in verse, and very exqui- 
site verse too, and has inspired many an effusion, 
full of beauty, fancy, and poetry ; but it has not, 
therefore, been counted less sincere; and Heaven 
forbid it should prove less lasting than if it had 
been told in the homeliest prose, and had never 
iuspired one beautiful idea or one rapturous verse! 

To study Petrarch in his own works, and in his 
own delightful language ; to follow him line by line 
through all the vicissitudes and contradictions of 
passion ; to listen to his self-reproaches, his terrors, 
his regrets, his conflicts ; to dwell on his exquisite 
delineations of individual character and peculiar 
beauty, his simple touches of profound pathos and 

* See Pursuits of Literature 



50 



melancholy tenderness; — and then believe all to 
be mere invention, — the coinage of the brain, — a 
tissue of visionary fancies, in which the heart had 
no share ; to confound him with the cold metaphys- 
ical rhymesters of a later age, — seems to argue 
not only a strange want of judgment, but an sx- 
traordinary obtuseness of feeling.* 

The faults of taste of which Petrarch has been 
accused over and over again, by those who seem to 
have studied him as Voltaire studied Shakspeare, 
— his concetti — his fanciful adoration of the laurel, 
as the emblem of Laura — his playing on the words 
Laura, L'aura, and Lauro, his freezing flames and 
burning ice, — I abandon to critics, and let them 
make the best of them, as defects in what were 
else perfection. 

These were the fashion of the day : a great 
genius may outrun his times, but not without bear- 
ing about him some ineffaceable impressions of the 
manners and characters of the age in which he 
lived. He is too witty — " E a trop d'esprit," to be 
sincere, say the critics, — " he has a conceit left hins. 
in his misery, — a miserable conceit ; " but we 

* In a private letter of Petrarch to the Bishop of Lombes, oc- 
curs the following passage — (the Bishop, it appears, had rallied 
him on the subject of his attachment.) " Would to God that my 
Laura were indeed but an imaginary person, and my passion fe; 
her but sport! — Alas! it is rather a madness! — hard would i* 
have been, and painful, to feign so long a time — and what extrav 
agance to play such a farce in the world ! No ! we may coun. 
terfeit the action and voice of a sick man, but nc t the palenesf 
Mid wasted looks of the sufferer ; and how often have you wit 
uessed both in me." Sade, vol. i. p. 281. 



! a i i: \. 61 

Know -.it least /know -liow in tin- \erv extremity 

of passion the soul can modi at itself — how th« 
fancy r.in, with ;i bitter and exaggerated gayety, 
Hpori with the heart ! These arc faults of compo- 
■tion in the writer, and admitted to be such; but 
they prove nothing againsl the man. the poet, or 
the lover. The reproach of monotony, I confess I 
never could understand. It is rather matter of 
astonishment, how, in a collection of nearly font 

hundred poems, all, with one or two exceptions, 
taming upon the same Bubjed and sentiment, the 

poet has poured forth such an endless and redun- 
dant variety, both of thought and feeling— -how 

from the wide universe, the changeful face of all 

beautiful nature, the treasures of antique learning, 
and, above all, from his own overflowing heart, lie 
has drawn those lovely pictures, allusions, situa- 
tions, sentiments, and reflections, which have, in- 
deed, been stolen, borrowed, imitated, worn thread* 
nare by succeeding poets, but in him were the 
fresh and spontaneous etl'nsions of profound feeling 
and luxuriant fancy. Schlegel very justly ol>- 
Berves, that the impression of monotony may arise 
from onr considering at one view, and bound np 
in one volume, a long series of poems, which were 
written in the course of many years, ar different 
times and 011 different occasions. Laura herself, he 
avers, would certainly have been ennwjee to death 
with her own praises, if she had been obliged to read 
over, at one sitting, all the verses which her loveT 
toinposed on her charms ; and I agree with him. 



52 



It appears to me that the very impression of 
Petrarch's individual character, and the circum- 
stances of his life, on the whole mass of bis poetry, 
are evidence of the truth of his attachment, and 
the reality of its object. He was by nature a 
poet ; his love was, therefore, poetical : he loved 
" in numbers, for the numbers came." He was an 
accomplished scholar in a pedantic age, — and hia 
love is, therefore, illustrated by such comparisons 
and turns of thought as were allied to his habitual 
studies. He had a fertile and playful fancy, and 
his love is adorned by all the luxuriance of his 
imagination. He had been educated for the pro- 
fession of the Civil Law, " per vender parole anzi 
mensogne," — to sell words and lies, as he disdain- 
fully expressed it, — and his love is mixed up with 
subtile reasonings on his own hapless state. He 
was a philosopher, and it is tinged with the mystic 
reveries of Platonism, the favorite and fashionable 
philosophy of the age. He was deeply religious, 
and the strain of devotional and moral feeling 
which mingles with that of passion, or of grief, — 
his fears lest the excess of his earthly affections 
should interfere with his eternal salvation, his con- 
tinual allusions to his faith, to a future existence, 
and the nothingness and vanity of the world, — are 
not so many proofs of his profaneness, but of his sin- 
cerity. He was suspicious, irritable, and suscepti- 
ble ; subject to quick transitions of feeling ; raised 
^y a word to hope — plunged by a glance into de« 
ipair; just such a finely-frmed instrument as a 



M 



wom.in loves to play on ; — and all ihis W6 have Ml 

forth in the contradictions, the Belf-reproaches, tho 
little daily vicissitudes which are events and revo 

lutions in a life of passion ; a lit'.' which, when ex- 
hibited in the rich ami soliciting tints of poetry, 
has all the power of BtTODg interest, united 'O 

the charm of harmony ami expression ; bnt in the 

reality, and in plain prose, cannot he contemplated 
without a painful compassion. "The day may 
perhaps come," says Petrarch in one of his familiar 
letters,* u when I sh ill have, calmness enough to 

contemplate all the misery of my soul, to examine 

my passion, not, however, that I may continue to 
lose her — but that I may love thee alone. my 
God! But at this day, how many obstacles have I 
yet to surmount, how many efforts have 1 yet to 
make! I no longer love as I did love, but still I 
love; I love in spite of myself — in lamentations 
and in tears. I will hate her — no ! — I must still 
love her ! " Seven years afterwards he writes, — 
M my love is extreme, but it is exclusive and virtu- 
ous — virtuous! — no! — this disquietude, these suspi- 
cions, these transports, this watchfulness, this utter 
weariness of every thing, are not signs of a virtu- 
ous love ! " What a picture of an impassioned and 
distracted heart ! 

***** 

And who was this Laura, the illustrious object 
of a passion which has filled the wide universe from 
lide to side with her name and fame ? What waa 

• Quoted by Fosco'.o. 



64 LAURA- 

her station, her birth, her lineage ? What were 
her transcendent qualities of person, heart, and 
mind, that she should have swayed, with such des- 
potic and distracting power, one of the sovereign 
spirits of the age ? Is it not enough that we ac- 
knowledge her to have been Petrarch's love — as 
chaste as fair ? 

And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 
A woman, so she is good, what does it signify ? 

In the present case, it signifies much ; — we are 
not to be put off with a witty or satirical couplet : 
— the insatiable curiosity which Laura has excited 
from age to age — the volumes which have been 
written on the subject — are a proof of the sincerity 
of her lover; for nothing but truth could ever 
inspire this lasting and universal interest. But 
without diving into these dry disputations, let 
us take Laura's portrait from Petrarch himself, 
drawn, it will be said, by the partial hand 
Df a poetic lover : — true ; but since Laura is inter- 
esting to us from the charms she possessed in his 
eyes, it were unfair to seek her portraiture else- 
where. 

Laura was of high birth and station, though her 
life was spent in retirement and domestic cares ■ 

In nobil sangue, vita uniile e quete. 

Her father, Audibert de Noves, was of the hauU 
noblesse of Avignon, and died in her infancy, leav- 
ing her a dowry of 1000 gold crowns, (abou* 






l.AI'KA S5 

10,000 pounds,) — a magnificent portion for those 
times. Bhe was married at the age of eighteen to 
Hugh de Sade, a man of rank equal to lier own, and 
of corresponding age, but not distinguished by any 
advantages either of person or mind. The marriage 
contract is dated in January, 1325, two years be- 
fore her first meeting with Petrarch : and in it, her 
mother, the Lady of Ermessende, and brother 
Jolin de Noves, stipulate to pay the dower left by 
her father; and also to bestow on the bride two 
magnificenl dresses for state occasions ; one of 
green, embroidered with violets ; the other of crim- 
son, trimmed with feathers. In all the portraits of 
Laura now extant, she is represented in one of 
these two dresses, and they are frequently alluded 
toby Petrarch. He tells us expressly, that when 
he fust met her at matins in the Church of St. 
Claire, she was habited in a robe of green, spotted 
with violets.* Mention is also made of a coronal 
of silver with which she wreathed her hair ; of her 
necklaces and ornaments of pearl. Diamonds are 
not once alluded to, because the art of cutting 
them had not then been invented. From all which, 
it appears, that Laura was opulent, and moved in 
the first cla^s of society. It was customary for 
the women of rank, in those times, to dress with 
extreme simplicity on ordinary occasions, but with 
die most gorgeous splendor when they appeared in 
public. There are some beautiful descriptions of 
Laura surrounded by her young female compan- 

• Canz. it. Sonnet 10 
5 



66 LAURA. 

ions, divested of all her splendid apparel, in s 
simple white robe and a few flowers in her hair , 
but still preeminent over all by her superior 
loveliness. From the frequent allusions to hei 
dress, and Petrarch's angry apostrophes to her 
mirror, because it assisted to heighten charms al- 
ready too destructive,* we may infer that Laura 
was not unmindful of the cares of the toilet. 

She was in person a fair Madonna-like beauty, 
with soft dark eyes, and a profusion of pale golden 
hair parted on her brow, and falling in rich curls 
over her neck. He dwells on the celestial grace 
of her figure and movement, " 1' andar celeste." 

Non era 1' andar suo cosa mortale 
Ma d' angelica forma. 

He describes the beauty of her hand in the 166th 
sonnet, — 

bella man che mi distringi il core 
And the loveliness of her mouth, — 
La bella bocca angelica. 

The general character of her beauty must have 
been pensive, soft, unobtrusive, and even some- 
what languid : 

L' angelica sembianza umile e piana — 
L' atto mansuetto, umile e tardo— 

ftie last line is exquisitely characteristic. This ex- 

*See Son. 37, 38, &e 



LAURA. 61 

toeme softness Euid repose must have been Ear re> 
toored from insipidity ; for he dwells also on t ho 
tare and varying expression of her loveliness 
"Leggiadria ringolare e pellegrina; M — the light- 
bing of her smile, M II lampeggiar dell* angelica 
riso ; " — and the tender magic of her voice, which 
was fell in the inmost heart, M II cantar che ncll' 
annua si senie." She had a habit of veiling her 
eyes with her hand, and her looks were generally 
bent on the earth, " o per uniiltade o per OTgOgHo/' 
Jn the portrait of Laura, which I saw at the Lau- 

rcntian Library at Florence, the eyes have this 
characteristic downcast look. Her lover complains 
also of a veil, which she was fond of wearing. 

Wandering in the country, one summer's day, he 
sees a yonng peasant-girl washing a veil in the run- 
ning stream ; he recognizes the very texture which 
had so often intervened between him and the 
heaven of Laura's beauty, and he trembles as if 
he had been in the presence of Laura herself. 
This little incident is the subject of the first Mad- 
rigal. 

He describes her dignified humility, " V umilta 
roperba ; " — her beautiful silence, " il bel tacere ; " 
.—her frequent sighs, l< i sospir soavemente rotti ; n 
—her sweet disdain and gentle repulses, " dolci 
ldegni,placide repulse ;" — the gesture which spoke 
without the aid of words, " V atto che parla con ei- 
'enzio." The picture, it must be confessed, is most 
finished, most delicate, most beautiful ; — supposing 
irlv half to be true, if is still beautiful. But fai 



68 LAURA. 

more flattering, and more honorable to Laura, is 
her lover's confession of the influence which hei 
charming character possessed over him ; for it ia 
certain that we owe to Laura's exquisite purity of 
mind and manners, the polished delicacy of the 
homage addressed to her. Passing over, of course, 
the circumstance of her being a married woman, 
and therefore not a proper object of amorous 
verse, — there is not in all the poetry she inspired, 
a line of sentiment which angels might not hear 
and approve. Petrarch represents her as express- 
ing neither surprise nor admiration at the self sac- 
rifice of Lucretia, but only wondering that shame 
and grief had not anticipated the dagger of the 
Roman matron. He describes her conversation, 
" pien d'intelletti dolci ed alti," and her mind ever 
serene, though her countenance was pensive, " in 
aspetto pensoso, a nima lieta." He tells us that she 
had raised him above all low-thoughted cares, and 
purified his heart from all base desires. " I bless 
the place, the time, the hour, when I presumed to 
lift my eyes upon her, — I say, O my soul, thankful 
Bhouldst thou be that hast been deemed worthy of 
Buck high honor — for from her spring those gentle 
thoughts which shall lead thee to aspire to the high- 
est good, and to disdain all that the vulgar mind 



I' benedico il loco e '1 tempo e 1' ora 
Cho si alti miraron gli occhi miei; 
E dico : anima, assai ringraziar dei 
Che fosti a tanto onor degnata allora 



I.ACHA. ft* 

Da lei ti vien r amoroso pen 

Cho, mend 1' Sommo ben V invia 

Poco preczando quel c-h' ognJ aom desla. 

Every generous feeling, every noble and de- 
rated sentiment , every derive for improvement, hfl 
refers to her, and to her only : 

S' alcun bel fmtto 
Nasce di me, da voi vicn prima il seme, 
Io per me son quasi 1111 terreno asciutto 
Colto da voi; e'l pregio 6 vostro in tutto. 

Canzone 8. 

Ui> giYea us in a angle line the very beau ideal 
of a female character, when he tells us that Lama 
united the highest intellect with the purest heart, 
" In alto intelletto on puro core." He dwells with 
rapture on her angelic modesty, which excited at 
once his reverence and his despair ; but he con- 
fesses that he still hopes something from the pitying 
tenderness of her disposition. — 

Non 6 si duro cor, che lagrimando, 
Pregando, amando, talor non si smova 
Ne si freddo voler, che non si scalde. 

The attachment inspired by such a woman was 
not likely to be lessened by absence, or removed 
by death itself; and it is certain that the sec- 
ond part of the Canzoniere of Petrarch, written 
>*fter the death of Laura, is more beautiful than 
the first part : in a more impassioned style, a higher 
tDne of feeling, with far few^.r iaults, both of taste 
*nd stvle. 



ro 



It will be said perhaps that " the picture of such 
a mind as Petrarch's, enslaved and distracted by a 
dreaming passion, employed even in his declining 
years, in writing and polishing love verses, is a 
pitiable subject of contemplation ; that if he had 
not left us his Canzoniere, he would probably have 
performed some other excelling work of genius, 
which would have crowned him with equal or su- 
perior glory ; and that if he had never been the 
lover of Laura, he would have been no less that 
master-spirit who gave the leading impulse to the 
age in which he lived, by consecrating his life, his 
energies, all his splendid talents, to the cultivation of 
philosophy and the fine arts, the extension of learn 
mg and liberty, and the general improvement oi 
mankind." 

I doubt this, and I appeal to Petrarch himself. 

I believe there is no version into English of the 
48th Canzone. If Lady Dacre had executed it — 
and in the same spirit as the " Chiare, fresche e 
dolce acque," and the " Italia mia," the reader had 
been spared my abortive prose sketch, which will 
give as just an idea of the original as a hasty pen- 
cilled outline of one of Titian's or Domenichino's 
master-pieces would give us of all the magic color- 
ing and effect of their glorious and half-breathing 
creations. 

In this Canzone, Petrarch, in a high strain ol 
poetic imagery, which takes nothing from the trutfc 
w pathos of the sentiment, allegorizes his ow» 



LAURA. 7\ 

•tuation ami feelings: he represents himself a* 
Biting the Lord of Love, " Suo empio e dolce Sig- 
Dore," before the throne of Reason, and accusing 
him ait the cause of all his sufferings, sorrows 
errors, and misspent time. u Through him (Love) 
I have endured, even from the moment I was first 
beguiled into his power, such various and such ex- 
quisite pain, that my patience has at length been 
exhausted, and I have abhorred my existence. I 
have not only forsaken the path of ambition and 
useful exertion, but even of pleasure and of hap- 
piness: I, who was born, if I do not deceive my- 
self, for far higher purposes than to be a mere 
amorous slave ! Through him I have been careless 
of my duty to Heaven, — negligent of myself: — for 
the sake of one woman I forgot all else ! — me mis- 
erable ! What have availed me all the high and 
precious gifts of Heaven, the talents, the genius, 
which raised me above other men ? My hairs are 
changed to gray, but still my heart changeth not 
Hath he not sent me wandering over the earth in 
search of repose ? hath he not driven me from city 
to city, and through forests, and wx>ds, and wild 
solitudes ? * hath he not deprived me of peace, 
and of that sleep which no herbs nor chanted spells 
have power to restore ? Through him, I have 
become a by- word in the world, which I have filled 
with my lamentations, till, by their repetition, 1 
have wearied myself, and Derhaps all others." 

* Foscolo remarks the restless spirit which all his life droye P» 
tfarch, like a perturbed spirit, from one residence to another. 



ri LAURA. 

To this long tirade, Love with indignation re- 
plies : " flearest thou the falsehood of this ungrate* 
ful man ? This is he who in his youth devoted 
himself to the despicable traffic of words and lies, 
and now he blushes not to reproach me with having 
raised him from obscurity, to know the delights of 
an honorable and virtuous life. I gave him power 
'to attain a height of fame and virtue to which of 
himself he had never dared to aspire. If he has 
obtained a name among men, to me he owes it 
Let him remember the great heroes and poets of 
antiquity, whose evil stars condemned them to 
lavish tbeir love upon unworthy objects, whose 
mistresses were courtezans and slaves; while for 
him, I chose from the whole world one lovely 
woman, so gifted by Heaven with all female excel- 
lence, that her likeness is not to be found beneath 
the moon, — one whose melodious voice and gentle 
accents had power to banish from his heart every 
vain, and dark, and vicious thought. These were 
the wrongs of which he complains : such is my 
reward for all I have done for him, — ungrateful 
man ! Upon my wings hath he soared upwards, 
till his name is placed among the greatest of the 
sons of song, and fair ladies and gentle knights 
listen with delight to his strains : — had it not been 
for me, what had he become before now ? Per- 
haps a vain flatterer, seeking preferment in a 
Court, confounded among the herd of vulgar men 
I have so chastened, so purified his heart through 
he heavenly image impressed upon it, that eves 



73 



m his youth, and in the age of the passion*, I pro* 
nryed him pure in thoughl and in action; * what 
ever of good or great i vex stirred within bis ban 
he derives from her and from me. From the con- 
templation of virtue, sweetness, and beauty, in the 
gracious countenance of her he loved, I led bun 
upwards to the adoration of the first Great Cause, 
the fountain of all that is beautiful and excellent' 

— hath he DOt him<elf confessed it? And this lair 

creature, whom I gave him to be the honor, and 
delight, and prop of his trail life" — 

EEere the Bense is suddenly broken oft' in the 
middle of a lim\ Petrarch utters a cry of horror, 
and exclaims — " yes, yon gave her to me, but you 

have also taken her from me ! " 

Love replies with sweet austerity — " not I — but 
He — the eternal One — who hath willed it so !" 

Alter this, it will be allowed, I think, that it is 
to Laura we owe Petrarch ; and that if the recom- 
pense she bestowed on him was not exactly that 
which he Bought, — yet in tame, in greatness, in 
virtue, and in happiness, she well and richly repaid 
tin 1 adoration he lavished at her feet, and the glo- 
rious wreath of song with which he has circled her 
brows I 



* H«re Petrarch seems to hare forgotten himself; lie wu no 
•/ways likiaaculate. 






f4 LAUBA 



CHAPTER Vn. 

LAURA AND PETBARCH 

CONTINUED. 

Mitch power of lively ridicule, much coarse wit> 
—principally French wit, — has been expended on 
the subject of Laura's virtue ; by those, I presume, 
who under similar circumstances would have found 
such virtue " too painful an endeavour." * Much 
depraved ingenuity has been exerted to twist cer- 
tain lines and passages in the Canzoniere into a 
■sense which shall blot with frailty the memory of 
this beautiful and far-famed being : once believe 



* Madame Deshoulieres speaks " avec connaissance de fait," 
and even points out the very spot in which Laura, " de l'amor- 
eux Patrarque adoucit le martyre." — Another French lady, who 
piqued herself on being a descendant of the family of Laura, 
was extremely affronted and scandalized when the Chevalier 
Ramsay asserted that Petrarch's passion was purely poetical and 
platonic, and regarded it heresy to suppose that Laura could 
have been " ungrateful," — such was her idea of feminine grati- 
tude! — (Spence's Anecdotes.) Then comes another French 
woman, with the most anti-poetical soul that God ever placed 
within the form of a woman — " Le fade personage que votre Pe 
trarque ! que sa Laure etait sotte et precieuse ! que la Cour d' 
Amour etait fastidieuse! " &c, exclaims the acute^ amusing 
profligate, heartless Madame du Deffand. It must be allowed 
that Petrarch and Laura would have been extremely displages U 
foe Court of the Regent, — the only Court of Love with which 
Madame du Deffand was acquainted, and which assuredly wai 
Hot fas f ulituse. 






?; 



these interpretations, and all tho peculiar ami 

graceful charm which now bangs round her inter* 
Bourse with Petrarch vanishes, — the reverential 
delicacy of the poet's homage becomes a mockery, 
and all his exalted praises of her unequalled virtue, 
and her invincible chastity, are turned to .-atire, 
and insult our moral Peeling. 

But the question, I believe, is finally set at rest, 
anil it were idle to war with epigrams. All the 
evidence that has been collected, external and 
internal, prose and poetry, critical and traditional, 
tends to prove, first, that Laura preserved her virtue 
to the last ; and secondly, that she did not preserve 
ii onassailed ; that Petrarch, true to his sex, — a very 
man, (as Laura has been called a very woman.) 
used at first every art, every effort, every advan- 
tage, which his diversified accomplishments of mind 
and person lent him, to destroy the very virtue he 
adored. He only hints this in his poetry, just suffi- 
ciently to enhance the glory which he has thrown 
round his divinity : but he speaks more plainly in 
prose. 

u Untouched by my prayers, unvanquished by 
my arguments, unmoved by my flattery, she re- 
mained faithful to her sex's honor ; she resisted 
her own young heart, and mine, and a thousand, 
thousand, thousand things, which must have con- 
quered any other. She remained unshaken. A 
woman taught me the duty of a man ! to persuade 
me to keep the path of virtue, her conduct was at 
•nee an example and a reproach , and when sh« 



76 



beheld me break through all bounds, and rush 
blindly to the precipice, she had the courage to 
abandon me, rather than follow me." * 

But whether, in this long conflict, Laura pre- 
served her heart untouched, as well as her virtuG 
immaculate ; whether she shared the love she in- 
spired ; or whether she escaped from the captivating 
assiduities and intoxicating homage of her lover, 
"fancy-free ; " — whether coldness, or prudence, or 
pride, or virtue, or the mere heartless love of ad- 
miration, or a mixture of all together, dictated her 
conduct, is at least as well worth inquiry, as the 
exact color of her eyes, or the form of her nose 
upon which we have pages of grave discussion. 
She might have been coquette par instinct, if not 
par calcul ; she might have felt, with feminine 
tacte, that to preserve her influence over Petrarch, 
it was necessary to preserve his respect. She was 
evidently proud of her conquest : she had else 
been more or less than woman ; and at every 
hazard, but that of self-respect, she was resolved 
to retain him. If Petrarch absented himself for a 
lew days, he was generally better treated on his 
return.f If he avoided her, then her eye followed 
him with a softer expression. When he looked 
pale from sickness of heart and agitation of spirits, 

* From the Dialogues with St. Augustin, as quoted in th« 
''Pieces Justificatives," and by Ginguene' (Hist. Litt. vol. iii, 
notes.) These imaginary dialogues are a series of Confession* 
not intended for publication by Petrarch, but now printed with 
lis prose works. 

t Sonnet 39 






77 



Laura would address him with a few words of 
pitying tenderness. He thanks her in those Ba> 
qui>itc lines, which seem be L r l<»w with all the reno- 
vation of hope, 

Volgendo gli occhi al mio novo color© 
Che fii di morte rimcinbrar le gente 
Pieta. vi mosse, ondo bonignamente 
Salutmdo tencstc in vita il core. 

La frale vita ch' ancor raeco alberga, 
Fu de' begli occhi vostri aperto dono, 
E della voce angelica 6oave!* 

He presumes upon this benignity, and is again 
dashed back with frowns. He flics to solitude, — 
solitude ! — Never let the prond and torn heart, 
Wrong with the sense of injury, and sick with un- 
requited passion, seek that worst resource against 
pain, for there grief grows by contemplation of 
itself, and every feeling is sharpened by collision 
Petrarch sought to "mitigate the fever of his 
heart" amid the shades of Vaucluse, a spot so 
gloomy and so solitary, that his very servants for- 
sook him ; and Vaucluse, its fountains, its forests, 
and its hanging cliffs, reflected only the image of 
Laura. 

L'acque parlan d'amore, e 1'aura, e i rami 
E gli augeletti, e i pesci e i fiori e l'erba ; 
Tutti insieme pregando ch' io sempr' amilf 

• Eallata 6. 

t Petrarch withdrew to Vaucluse in 12S7, and spent thrw 
rears in entire solitude He commenced his journey to Rome ia 
'841, abo-it fourteen yean after lri< first interview with Laura. 



78 LAURA. 

He is driven again to her feet by his own insup« 
portable thoughts — and in terror of himself : — 

Tal paura ho di ritrovarmi solo ! 

He endeavours to maintain in her presence that 
self-constraint she had enjoined. He assumes a 
cold and calm deportment, and Laura, as she 
passes him, whispers in a tone of gentle reproach, 
" Petrarch ! are you so soon weary of loving me ? " 
(ten or eleven years of adoration were, in truth, 
nothing — to signify /) At length, he resolved to 
leave Laura and Avignon forever ; and instead of 
plunging into solitude, to seek the wiser resource 
of travel and society. He announced this inten- 
tion to Laura, and bade her a long farewell ; eithei 
through surprise, or grief, or the fear of losing her 
glorious captive, she turned exceedingly pale, a 
cloud overspread her beautiful countenance, and 
she fixed her eyes on the ground. This was to her 
lover an intoxicating moment : in the exultation 
of sudden delight, he interpreted these symptoms 
of relenting, this " vago impallidir," too favorably 
to himself. " She bent those gentle eyes upon the 
earth, which in their sweet silence said, — to me at 
*east they seemed to say, — ' who takes my faithful 
friend so far from me ? ' " 

Chinava a terra il bel guardo gentile, 
E tacendo dicea, com' a me parve — 
" Chi m' allontana il mio fedele amico ? " 

On his return to Avignon, a few months aftep 
wards, Laui u received him with evident pie 



rt 



hut ho is not. therefore, more aoanoi; all tins wai 
probably tin- refined coqetterie of a woman of 
oalm passions; but not heartless, not really in 
different to the devotion Bhe inspired, nor ungrate- 
ful tor it. 

Petrarch lias himself left as a most minute and 
interesting description of the whole course of 

Laura's conduct towards h'nn, which by a beautiful 
figure of poetry he has placed in her own mouth. 

The passage occurs in die Tuionfo di Morte, 
beginning, '• La notte ehe Begui I'orribil caso." 

The apparition of Laura descending on the morn- 
ing (lew, bright as the opening dawn, and crowned 
with Oriental gems, 

Di ^emme oriental] incoronsta, 

appears before her lover, and addresses him with 
compassionate tenderness. After a short dialogue, 
full of poetic beauty and noble thoughts,* Pe- 
trarch conjures her, in the name of heaven and of 
truth, to tell him whether the pity she sometimes 
expressed for him was allied to love? for that the 
sweetness she mingled with her disdain and re- 
serve — the soft looks with which she tempered her 
linger, had left him for long years in doubt of her 
real sentiments, still doating, still suspecting, still 
hoping without end : 

* Petrarch asks her whether it was " pain to die? " ehe replle* 
hi those fine linos which have boon quoted a thousand times : 

La Morte e flu d'una prigion oscura 
Agli aninii gentili; agli altri e noia, 
Gh' hauno nosto nel (ango ogni lor curs 



SO LAURA. 

Creowi amor pensier mai nella testa, 
D' aver pieta del mio lungo martire 
Non lasciando vostr' alta impresa onesta P 

Che vostri dolci sdegni e le dole' ire — 
Le dolci paci ne' begli ocelli scritte — 
Tenner molt' anni in dubbio il mio desire. 

She replies evasively, with a smile and a sigh, that 
her heart was ever with him, but that to preserve 
her own fair fame, and the virtue of both, it was ne- 
cessary to assume the guise of severity and disdain. 
She describes the arts with which she kept alive 
his passion, now checking his presumption with the 
most frigid reserve, and when she saw him droop- 
ing, as a man ready to die, " all fancy-sick and 
pale of cheer," gently restoring him with soft 
looks and kind words : 

" Salvando la tua vita e'l nostro onore." 

She confesses the delight she felt in being be- 
loved, and the pride she took in being sung by so 
great a poet. She reminds him of one particular 
occasion, when seated by her side, and they were 
left alone, he sang to his lute a song composed to 
her praise, beginning, " Dir piu non osa il nostro 
amore ;" and she asks him whether he did not per- 
ceive that the veil had then nearly fallen from her 
heart?* 

* Ma non si ruppe almen ogni vel quando 
Sola i tuoi detti, te presente accolsi 
" Dir piti non osa il nostrt amor," cantando. 

(The song here alluded to is not preserved in Petrarch's work! 
*nd the expression " U nostro amore," is very remarkable.) 



She laments, in some exquisite lines, (hat she 

had not the happiness to be born in Italy* the 

native country of her lover, and yet allows that 
the land nnist need* be lair in which she first won 
"\is afl'ection. 

Duolmi ancor venuiiente, ch'io non nacqui 
Alinen piii presso al tuo fiorito nido! — 
Ifa SSSSi fa be! piicse ov' io ti piacqui. 

In another passage we have a sentiment evi- 
dently taken from nature, and exquisitely graceful 
and feminine. "You," says Laura," proclaim. id 
to all men the passion you felt for me: you called 
aloud for pity : you kept not the tender secret for 
me alone, but took a pride and a pleasure in pub- 
lishing it forth to the world ; thus constraining me, 
by all a woman's fear and modesty, to be silent." — 
" But not less is the pain because we conceal it in 
thi> depths of the heart, nor the greater because 
we lament aloud ; fiction and poetry can add 
nothing to truth, nor yet take from it." 

Tu eri di merc£ chiamar gia roco 
Quand' io tacea ; perche vergogna e tema 
Facean molto desir, parer si poco; 
Non e minor il duol perch' altri '1 prema, 
Ne maggiar per sndani lamentando: 
Per fizlon non cresce il ver, ne sccma. 

Petrarch, then all trembling and in tears, ex- 
claims, " that could he but believe he had been 
dear to her eyes as to her heart, he were suffi- 



62 



ciently recompensed for all his sufferings ,* '' and 
she replies, " that will I never reveal ! " (" quelle 
•ni taccio") By this coquettish and characteristic 
answer, we are still left in the dark. Such was the 
sacred respect in which Petrarch held ber he so 
loved, that though he evidently wishes to believe — > 
perhaps did believe, that he had touched her heart, 
he would not presume to insinuate what Laura had 
never avowed. The whole scene, though less pol- 
ished in the versification than some of his sonnets, 
is written throughout with all the flow and fervor 
of real feeling. It received the poet's last correc- 
tions twenty-six years after Laura's death, and but 
a few weeks previous to his own. 

When at Milan, I was taken, as a matter of 
course, to visit the Ambrosian library. At the 
time I was in ill health, dejected and indifferent ; 
and I only remember being led m passive resigna- 
tion from room to room, and called upon to admire 
a vast variety of objects, at the moment when 1 
was pining for rest ; when to look, think, speak, or 
move, was pain, — when to sit motionless and to 
gaze out upon the sunshine, seemed to me the only 
supreme blessedness. In such moments as these, 
we can have sympathies with nature, but not with 
old books and antiquities. I 'iave a most confused 
recollection both of the locality and the contents 
of this famous collection ; but there were two 
objects which roused me from this sullen stupor 
liid indelibly impressed my imagination and mj 






memory; and one. of these was the celebrated COpy 

of Virgil, which had I n tin 1 favorite companion 

and oonstanl Btudy of Petrarch, containing that 
memorandum of the death of Laura, in bia own 

handwriting, which, after much expenditure of 
paper, and argument, and critical abuse, is at 
length admitted to he genuine. I knew little of 
the controversy this famous inscription had occa- 
sioned in Italy, — though I was aware that its 
authenticity had been disputed: but as a homely 
proverb saith, seeing is believing ; to look upon the 
handwriting with my own eyes, would have made 
assurance doubly sure, if in that moment I needed 
such assurance. I do not remember reasoning or 
doubting on the subject; — but gushing up like the 
waters of an intermitting fountain, there was a 
sudden flow of feeling and memory came over my 
heart: — I stood for some moments silently contem- 
plating the name of Laura, in the pale, half- 
effaced characters traced by the hand of her lover ; 
that name with which his genius and his love have 
filled the earth : confused thoughts of the mingling 
of vanity and glory, — of the " poco polvere che 
nulla sente," and the immortality of deified beauty, 
were crowded in my mind. When all were gone, 
I turned back, and gave the guide a small gratuity 
to be allowed to do homage to the name of Laura, 
by pressing my lips upon it. The reader smiles at 
this sentimental enthusiasm ; so would I, if time 
bad not taught me to respect as well as regret, 
what it has taken from me, and never r;an restore. 



84 LADE A. 

The memorandum has often been quoted ■ but 
this account of the love of Petrarch would not be 
complete were it omitted here. It runs literally 
thus : — 

" Laura, illustrious by her own virtues, and long 
celebrated by my verses, I beheld for the first time, 
in my early youth, on the 6th of April, 1327, about 
the first hour of the day, in the church of Saint 
Claire in Avignon : and in the same city, in the 
same month of April, the same day and hour, in 
the year 1348, this light of my life was withdrawn 
from the world while I was at Verona, ignorant, 
alas ! of what had befallen me. The terrible intelli- 
gence was conveyed in a letter from Louis and 
reached me at Panna the 19th of May, early in 
the morning. 

" Her chaste and beautiful remains were 
deposited the same day after vespers, in the 
Church of the Fratri Minori, (Cordeliers.) Her 
spirit, as Seneca said of Scipio Africanus,* has 
returned, doubtless, to that heaven whence it 
eame. 

" To preserve the memory of this afflicting loss, 
it is with a bitter pleasure I record it he-e, in this 
book which is ever before my eyes, that nothing in 
this world may hereafter delight me ; and that the 
chief tie which bound me to life being broken, 1 

* This sounds at first pedantic ; but it must be remembered 
lb at at this very time Petrarch was studying Seneca and writing 
% Latin poem on the history of Scipio : thus the ideas were fires* 
ha his mind. 



81 



nay, by irequently looking on these words, and 
thinking on this transitory existence, be prepared 

to quit this earthly Babylon, which, witli the help 

of the divine grace, and the constant and manly 
recollection of those fruitless desires, and vain 
hopes, and Bad vicissitudefl which have so long agi- 
tated me, will be an easy task." 

Laura died of the plague, which then desolated 
Avignon, and terminated the life of the sufferer 

on the third day. The moment she was seized 
with the fatal symptoms, she dictated her will; and 

notwithstanding the pestilential nature of her 

disorder, she was surrounded to the last by her 
numerous relations and friends, who braved death 
rather than forsake her. 

Her tomb was discovered and opened in L53S, in 

the presence of Francis the First, whose celebrated 
stanzas on the occasion are well known. 

Of the fame, which even in her lifetime, the 
love and poetieal adoration of Petrareh had thrown 
round his Laura, a curious instance is given which 
will characterize the manners of the age. When 
Charles of Luxemburgh (afterwards Emperor) 
was at Avignon, a grand fete was given in his 
honor, at which all the noblesse were present. He 
desired that Petrarch's Laura should be pointed 
»ut to him ; and when she was introduced, h« 
ma'ie a sign with his hand that the other ladiei 
present should fall back ; then going up to Laura, 
*nd for a moment contemplating her with interest, 
be kissed her respectfully on the forehead '*nd op 



86 LAURA. 

the eyelids. Petrarch alludes to this incident in 
the 201st sonnet, the last line of which shows that 
this royal salutation was considered singular. 

" M' empia d'invidia 1' atto dolce e strano.'* 

Petrarch survived her twenty-six years, dying in 
1874. He was found lifeless one morning in his 
gtudy, his hand resting on a book. 

***** 

The inferences I draw from this rapid sketch 
are, first, that Laura was virtuous, but not insensi- 
ble ; — for had she been facile, she would not have 
preserved her lover's respect; had she been a 
heartless trifler, she could not have retained his 
love, nor deserved his undying regrets : and 
secondly, that if Petrarch had not attached himself 
fervently to this beautiful and pure-hearted woman, 
he would have employed his splendid talents like 
other men of his time. He might then have left 
us theological treatises and Latin epics, which the 
worms would have eaten; he might have risen 
high in the church or state ; have become a bold 
intriguing priest; a politic archbishop, — a cardi- 
nal, — a pope ; — most worthless and empty titles all, 
compared with that by which he has descended to 
us, as Petrarch, the poet and lover of Laura !* 

* The hypothesis I have assumed relative to Laura's character, 
her married state, and the authenticity of the MS. note in the 
Virgil, have not been lightly adopted, but from deep conviction 
and patient examination : but this is not the place to set argu- 
ments and authorities in array — Ginguene and Gibbon against 
Lord Byron and Fraser Tytler. I am surprised at the ground 



BKATBiCE. 87 



CHAPTER Vffl. 

ON THE LOVE OF DANTE FOB BEATRICE 
POBTLNABI. 

Had I taken chronology into due consideration, 
Dante ought to have preceded Petrarch, having 
been born some forty years before him, — but I for- 
got it M Truth," says Wordsworth, " has her 
pleasure-grounds, 

Lord Byron has taken on the question. As for his characteristic 
sneer <>n the assertion of M. do Bastie, who had said truly and 
beautifully — " qu'il n'y a que la vertu seule qui soit capable de 
faire des impressions que la mort n'efface pas," I disdain, in my 
feminine character, to reply to it; I will therefore borrow the elo- 
quence of a more powerful pen : — " The love of a man like 
l'etrarch, would have been less in character if it had been less 
Ideal. For the purposes of inspiration, a single interview was 
quite sufficient. The smile which sank into his heart the first 
time he ever beheld Laura, played round her lips ever after; the 
look with which her eyes first met his, never passed away. The 
Image of his mistress still haunted his mind, and was recalled by 
•very object in nature. Even death could not dissolve the fin« 
Illusion ; for that which exists in the imagination is alone imper- 
ishable. As our feelings become more ideal, the impression of the 
raoment indeed becomes less violent; but the effect is more 
general and permanent. The blow is felt only by reflection ; it is 
the rebound that is fatal. We are not here standing up for thla 
fcind of Platonic attachment, but omy endeavoring to explain tha 
way in which the passions very commonly operate in mindj 
Msustonu'd to draw their strongest interest from constant contem- 
plation." Edinburgh Review. 



18 BEATRICE. 

Her haunts of ease 
And easy contemplation; — gay parterres 
And labyrinthine walks ; her sunny glades 
And shady groves for recreation framed." 

And such a haunted pleasure-ground of beautiful 
recollections, would I wish my subject to be to my. 
self and to my readers ; where we shall be privi* 
leged to wander at will ; to pause or turn back ; to 
deviate to this side or to that, as memory may 
prompt, or imagination lead, or illustration require 
Dante and his Beatrice are best exhibited in 
contrast to Petrarch and Laura. Petrarch was in 
his youth an amiable and accomplished courtier, 
whose ambition was to cultivate the arts, and please 
the fair. Dante, early plunged into the factions 
which distracted his native city, was of a stern 
commanding temper, mingling study with action. 
Petrarch loved with all the vivacity of his temper ; 
he took a pleasure in publishing, in exaggerating, 
in embellishing his passion in the eyes of the world. 
Dante, capable of strong and enthusiastic tender- 
ness, and early concentrating all the affections of 
his heart on one object, sought no sympathy ; and 
solemnly tells us of himself, — in contradistinction 
to those poets of his time who wrote of love from 
fashion or fancy, not from feeling, — that he wrotd 
as love inspired, and as his heart dictated. 

" Io mi son un che, quando 
Amore spira, noto, ed in quel modo 
Ch'ei detta dentro, vo significando." 

PUKGATORIO, C. 24 



BBATBIOI. 89 

A coquette would have, triumphed in meta a 
Mptive as Petrarch: and m truth, Lama • 
have "sounded him from the top to the bottom of 
his compass : " — a tender and impassioned woman 
would repose on such a heart as Dante's, even as 

his Beatrice did. Petrarch had a gay and captfe 
vating exterior; his complexion wasiair, with spark- 
ling blue eyes and a ready smile. lie is very 
amusing on the subject of his own coxcombry, and 
tells us how cautiously he used to turn the corner 
of a street, lest the wiud should disorder the elabo- 
rate curls of his fine hair ! Dante, too, was in his 
youth eminently handsome, but in a style of beauty 
which was characteristic of his mind : his eyes were 
large and intensely black, his nose aquiline, his 
complexion of a dark olive, his hair and beard 
very much curled, his step slow and measured, and 
the habitual expression of his countenance grave, 
with a tinge of melancholy abstraction. When 
Petrarch walked along the streets of Avignon, the 
women smiled, and said, " there goes the lover of 
Laura ! " The impression wdiich Dante left on 
those who beheld him, was far different. In allu- 
Bion to his own personal appearance, he used to 
relate an incident that once occurred to him. 
When years of persecution and exile had added to 
the natural sternness of his countenance, the deep 
anes left by grief, and the brooding spirit of ven- 
|eance, he happened to be at Verona, where 
since the publication of the Inferno, he was well 
known. Passing one day by a portico, where 



90 BEATRICE. 

several women were seated, one of them whispered, 
with a look of awe, — " Do you see that man ? that 
is he who goes down to hell whenever he pleases, 
and brings us back tidings of the sinners below ! " 
" Ay, indeed ! " replied her companion, — " very 
likely ; see how his face is scarred with fire and 
brimstone, and blackened with smoke, and how hia 
hair and beard have been singed and curled in the 
flames ! " 

Dante had not, however, this forbidding appear- 
ance when he won the young heart of Beatrice 
Portinari. They first met at a banquet given by 
her father, Folco de' Portinari, when Dante waa 
only nine years old, and Beatrice a year younger 
His childish attachment, as he tells us himself, com- 
menced from that hour; it became a passion, which 
increased with his years, and did not perish even 
with its object. 

Beatrice has not fared better at the hands of 
commentators than Laura. Laura, with her golden 
hair scattered to the winds, " i capei d'oro al aura 
sporsi," her soft smiles, and her angel-like deport- 
ment, was to be Kepentance ; and the more ma- 
jestic Beatrice, in whose eyes dwelt love, 

E spiriti d' amore infiammati, 

was sublimated into Theology, with how iruch 
reason we shall examine. 

In one of his canzoni, called il Ritratto, (the 
Portrait,) Dante has left us a most minute and fin 
ished picture of his Beatrice, " which," says Mf 



BBATBIOB. 91 

Carey, "m:^ht well supply a painter with a far 
more exalted idea of female beauty, than he could 

form to himself from the celebrated Ode of Ana- 
( icon, on a similar subject." From this canzope 
and some lines scattered through bis Bonnets, I shall 
iketch the person and character of Beatrice. She 
was not in form like the slender and fragile-looking 
Laura, but on a larger scale of loveliness, tall and 
of a commanding figure ; * — graceful in her gait 
as a peacock, upright as a crane, 

Soava a guisa va di un bel pavone, 
Diritta sopra se, come una grua. 

Her hair was fair and curling, 

" Capegli crespi e biondi," 

but not golden — an epithet I do not find once applied 
to it ; she had an ample forehead, " spaciossa fronte," 
a mouth that when it smiled surpassed all things in 
iweetness ; so that her Poet would give the uni- 
verse to hear it pronounce a kind " yes." 

Mira che quando ride 

Passa ben di dolcezza ogni altra cosa. 

Cosi dl quella bocca il pensier mio 

Mi sprona, percbe io 

Non ho nel mondo cosa che non des9e 

A tal ch' un si, con buon voler dicesse.. 

Her neck was white and slender, springing grace- 
hilly from the bust — 

* 4 Membra formori et grand!." 



12 BEATRICE. 

Poi guarda la sua svelta e bianca gola 
Commessa ben dalle spalle e dal petto. 

A. small, round, dimpled chin, 

Mento tondo, fesso e piccioletto: 

and thereupon the Poet breaks out into a rapture 
any thing but theological, 

n bel diletto 
Aver quel collo fra le braccia stretto 
E far in quella gola un picciol segno 1 

Her arms were beautiful and round ; her hand soft 
white, and polished ; 

La bianca mano morbida e pulita: 

her fingers slender, and decorated with jewelled 
rings as became her birth ; fair she was as a pearl 

Con un color angelica di perla: 

graceful and lovely to look upon, but disdainful 
where it was becoming : 

Graziosa a vederla, 

E disdegnosa dove 6i conviene. 

And, as a corollary to these traits, I will quote the 
eleventh Sonnet as a more general picture of 
female loveliness, heightened by some tender 
touches of mental and moral beauty, such as never 
•eem to have occurred to the debased imagination! 
of the classic poets : 



BMATBI4 53 

Negli oeohl porta li mia Donna A more; 
Perche si fa gantfl oiooch 1 alia miraj 
Ov' alia paaaa, ognj aom ver loi si gim; 
E cui saluta, (a tremar lo core, 

Bioohe baasando '1 viao tntto smuore, 
Ed ogni sun difetto allot sospira; 
Fuggo dinanzi a lei superbia ed ira. 
Ajutatemi, donne, a furlo onore! 

Ogni doloacaa, ogni panaiero umile 
Nasce nel coro u obi parlar la seute; 
Onde e laudato chi prima la vide. 

Quel ch' ella par, qnando un poco sorride 
No si pub dicer, ne tener a mente; 
Si e miovo miracolo e gentilo. 

TRANSLATION. 

4; Love is throned in the eyes of my Beatrice! they 
mcoble every thing she looks upon! As she passes, men 
turn and gaze; and whomsoever she salutes, his heart 
trembles within him; he bows his head, the color for- 
sakes his cheek, and he sighs for his own unworthiness. 
Pride and anger fly before her! Assist me, ladies, to do 
tier honor ! All sweet thoughts of humble love and good- 
will spring in the hearts of those who hear her speak, so 
that it is a blessedness first to behold her, and when she 
aintly and softly smiles — ah ! then it passes all fancy, all 
expression, so wondrous is the miracle, and so gracious!" 

The love of Dante for his Beatrice partook of 
the purity, tenderness, and elevated character of 
her who inspired it, and was also stamped with that 
item and melancholy abstraction, that disposition 
to mysticism, which were such strong features in 
the character of her lover. He does not break out 
aito fond and effeminate complaints, he does no* 



94 BEATRICE. 

righ to the winds, nor swell the fountain with his 
tears ; his love does not, like Petrarch's, alternately 
freeze and burn him, nor is it " un dolce amaro,* 
" a bitter sweet," with which his fancy can sport in 
good set terms. No; it shakes his whole being 
like an earthquake ; it beats in every pulse and 
artery ; it has dwelt in his heart till it has become 
a part of his life, or rather his life itself.* Though 
we are not told so expressly, it is impossible to 
doubt, on a consideration of all those passages and 
poems which relate to Beatrice, that his love was 
approved and returned, and that his character 
was understood and appreciated by a woman too 
generous, too noble-minded, to make him the sport 
of her vanity. He complains, indeed, poetically of 
her disdain, for which he excuses himself in another 
poem : " We know that the heavens shine on in 
eternal serenity, and that it is only our imperfect 
vision, and the rising vapors of the earth, that 
make the ever-beaming stars appear clouded at 
times to our eye." He expresses no fear of a rival 
in her affections ; but the native jealousy as well 
as delicacy of his temper appears in those passages 
in which he addresses the eulogium of Beatrice ta 
the Florentine ladies and her young companions.* 

* It borrows even the solemn language of Sacred Writ to ex 
press its intensity : 

Nelle man vostre, o dolce donna mia! 
Raccomando lo spirito che muore. Son. 84. 

1 1 refer particularly to that sublime Canzone addressed to tr 
i of Florence, and beginning, 

"Donne ch'avete intelletto d' amore. 1 ' 



MATBIOI. 95 

rhose of his own Rex, as he assures us, were not 
worthy to listen to her praises; or must perforce 
have become enamoured of this picture of female 
excellence, the fear of which made a coward of 
him — 

Ma tmtterb del suo stato gentile 
Donne e donzello amorose, con vni ; 
Che non 6 cosa da parlarne altrui. 

Among the young companions of Beatrice, Dante 
particularly distinguishes one, who appears to have 
been her chosen friend, and who, on account of her 
singular and blooming beauty, was called, at Flor- 
ence, Primavera, (the Spring.) Her real name 
was Giovanna. Dante frequently names them 
together, and in particular in that exquisitely 
fanciful sonnet to his friend Guido Cavalcanti ; 
where he addresses them "by those familiar and en- 
dearing diminutives, so peculiarly Italian — 

E MonnaVanna e Monna Bice poi.* 

* Monna Vanna, for Madonna Giovanna ; and Monna Bice, 
Madonna Beatrice. 

This famous sonnet has been translated by Hayley and by 
thelley. I subjoin the version of the latter, as truer to the sphil 
rf the original. 

THE WISH.— TO OUTDO CAVALCANTI. 

Guido! I would that Lapo, thou, and I, 
Led by some strong enchantment might ascend 

A mngic ship, whose charmed sails should fly 
With winds at will, where'er our thoughts might 

And that no change, nor any evil chance 

"hould mar our joyous voyage ; but it might be 



06 BEATRICE. 

It appears from the 7th and 8th Sonnets of the 
Vita Nuova, that in the early part of their inter- 
course, Beatrice, indulging her girlish vivacity, 
smiled to see her lover utterly discountenanced in 
her presence, and pointed out her triumph to her 
companions. This offence seems to have deeply 
affected the proud, susceptible mind of Dante : it 
was under the influence of some such morose feel 
ing, probably on this very occasion, that his dark 
passions burst forth in the bitter lines beginning, 

Io maledico il di ch 'io vidi imprima 
La luce de' vostri occhi traditorL 

" I curse the day in which I first beheld the splen- 
dor of those traitor eyes," &c. This angry sonnet 
forms a fine characteristic contrast with that elo- 
quent and impassioned effusion of Petrarch, in 
which he multiplies blessings on the day, the hour, 
the minute, the season, and the spot, in which he 
first beheld Laura — 

Benedetto sia P giorno, e '1 mese, e P anno, &c. 

This fit of indignation was, however, short-lived 
Every tender emotion of Dante's feeling heart 

That even satiety should still enhance 

Between our hearts their strict community. 
Arid that the bounteous wizard there would place 

Varina and Bice, and thy gentle love, 
Companions of our wanderings, and would grace 

With passionate talk, wherever we might rove 
Our time! — and each were as content and free 

As I believe that thou and I should be! 



BEATRICE. 97 

seems to hare been called forth when Beatrice lost 
her excellent father. Polco Portinari died in 1289 • 

and the description We have of the inconsolable 

grief of Beatrice and the sympathy of Her young 
companions, — so poetically, so delicately touched 
by her lover, — Impress as with a high idea of both 
her filial tenderness and the general amiability of 

her disposition, which rendered her thus beloved. 
In the 12th and 13th Sonnets, we have, perhaps 
one of the most beautiful groups ever presented in 
poetry. Dante meets a company of young Floren- 
tine ladies, who were returning from paying Bea 
trice a visit of condolence on the death of her 
father. Their altered and dejected looks, their 
downcast eyes, and cheeks " colorless as marble," 
make his heart tremble within him ; he asks after 
Beatrice — u our gentle lady," as he tenderly ex- 
presses it: the young girls raise their downcast 
eyes, and regard him with surprise. " Art thou 
he," they exclaim, " who hast so often sung to us 
the praises of our Beatrice ? the voice, indeed, is 
his ; but, oh ! how changed the aspect ! Thou 
weepest ! — why shouldest thou weep ? — thou hast 
not seen her tears ; — leave us to weep and return 
to our home, refusing comfort ; for we, indeed, 
have heard her speak, and seen her dissolved in 
grief; so changed is her lovely face by sorrow, 
that to look upon her is enDugh to make one die 
<it her feet for pity.* 

It should seem that the extreme affliction of 

* Sonnetto 13 (Poeaie della Vita Nuova.) 

7 



»8 BEATRICE. 

Beatrice for the loss of her father, acting on a deli* 
cate constitution, hastened her own end, for she 
died within a few months afterwards, in her 24th 
vear. In the " Yita Nuova " there is a fragment 
of a Canzone, which breaks off at the end of the 
first strophe ; and annexed to it is the following 
affecting note, originally in the handwriting of 
Dante. 

" I was engaged in the composition of this Can- 
zone, and had completed only the above stanza, 
when it pleased the God of justice to call unto him- 
self this gentlest of human beings ; that she might 
be glorified under the auspices of that blessed 
Queen, the Virgin Maria, whose name was ever 
held in especial reverence by my sainted Bea- 
trice." 

Boccaccio, who knew Dante personally, tells us, 
that on the death of Beatrice, he was so changed 
by affliction that his best friends could scarcely 
recognize him. He scarcely ate or slept ; he neg- 
lected his person, until he became " una cosa sel- 
vatica a vedere," a savage thing to the eye: to 
borrow his own strong expression, he seems tc 
have been " grief-stung to madness." To the first 
Canzone, written after the death of Beatrice, 
Dante has prefixed a note, in which he tells us, 
that after he had long wept in silence the loss of 
her he loved, he thought to give utterance to hi? 
sorrow in words ; and to compose a Canzone, in 
which he should write, (weeping as he wrote,) of 
the virtues of her who, through much anguish, had 



BEATRICE. 99 

•owed Ittf soul to the earth. u Thru," h€ says, u I 

ihns began : — gli occhi dolenti," — which are the 
first words Ijf this Canzone. It is addressed, like 
the others, to her female companions, whom alone 
he thought worthy to listen to her praises, and 
whose gentle hearts could alone sympathize in liii 
grief. 

Non vo parlare altrui 
Se n:>n a cor gentil, che 'n donna sia! 

One stanza of this Canzone is unequalled, 1 
think, for a simplicity at once tender and sublime. 
The sentiment, or rather the meaning, in homely 
English phrase, would run thus : — 

" Ascended is our Beatrice to the highest 
heaven, to those realms where angels dwell in 
peace; and you, her fair companions, and Love 
and me, she has left, alas ! behind. It was not the 
frost of winter that chilled her, nor was it the heat 
of summer that withered her ; it was the power of 
her virtue, her humility and her truth, that as- 
cended into heaven, moved the Eternal Father 
to call her to himself, seeing that this miserable 
life was not worthy of any thing so fair, so ex- 
cellent ! " 

On the anniversary of the death of Beatrice, 
Dante tells us that he was sitting alone, thinking 
upon her, and tracing, as he meditated, the figure 
of an angel on his table's.* Can any one doubt 
'.hat this little incident, so natural and so affecting 
—his thinking on his lost Beatrice, and by associfc 
* Vita Nuoya, d. 268. 



100 BEATRICE. 

lion sketching the figure of an angel, while his 
aiind dwelt upon her removal to a brighter and 
better world, — must have been real ? It gave rise 
to the 18th Sonnet of the Vita Nuova, which he 
calls " II doloroso annovale," (the mournful anni- 
versary.) 

Another little circumstance, not less affecting, ho 
has beautifully commemorated in two Sonnets, 
which follow the one last mentioned. They are 
addressed to some kind and gentle creature, who 
from a window beheld Dante abandon himself, 
with fearful vehemence, to the agony of his feel- 
ings, when he believed no human eye was on 
him. " She turned pale/' he says, " with com- 
passion ; her eyes filled with tears, as if she had 
loved me : then did I remember my noble-hearted 
Beatrice, for even thus she often looked upon me," 
&c. And he confesses that the grateful, yet mourn- 
ful pleasure with which he met the pitying look of 
this fair being, excited remorse in his heart, that 
he should be able to derive pleasure from any 
thing, 

Dante concludes the collection of his Rime, (his 
miscellaneous poems on the subject of his early 
love,) with this remarkable note : — 

" I beheld a marvellous vision which has caused 
me to cease from writing in praise of my blessed 
Beatrice, until I can celebrate her more worthily 
which that I may do, I devote my whole soul to 
study, as she knoweth well ; in so much, that if it 
please the Great Disposer of all things to prolong 



HKAT1UCE. 101 

Biy lift for a few years upon this earth, I hopo 
hereafter to si i ilt of my Beatrice what never yet 
was said or Ring of woman." 

And in this transport of enthusiasm, Dante con- 
ceived the ideft Of his greal poem, of which Bea- 
trice was destined to be the heroine. It was to no 
Muse, ealled by fancy from her fabled heights, and 
feigned at the poet's will; it was not to ambition 
of fame, nor literary leisure seeking a vent for 
Overflowing thoughts; nor to the wish to aggran- 
dize himself, or to Hatter the pride of a patron ; — 
but to the inspiration of a young, beautiful, and 
noble-minded woman, we owe one of the grandest 
efforts of human genius. And never did it enter 
into the imagination of any lover, before or since, 
to raise so mighty, so vast, so enduring, so glorious 
a monument to the worth and charms of a mistress. 
Other poets were satisfied if they conferred on the 
object of their love an immortality on earth : Dante 
was not content till he had placed his on a throne 
in the Empyreum, above choirs of angels, in pres- 
ence of the very fountain of glory ; her brow 
wreathed with eternal beams, and clothed with the 
ineffable splendors of beatitude ; — an apotheosis, 
compared to which, all others are earthly and poor 
indeed. 







t02 BEATRICE. 



CHAPTER IX. 

DANTE AND BEATRICE. 

CONTINUED. 

Through the two parts of the Divina Comin©» 
dia, (Hell and Purgatory,) Beatrice is merely 
announced to the reader — she does not appear in 
person ; for what should the sinless and sanctified 
spirit of Beatrice do in those abodes of eternal 
anguish and expiatory torment ? Her appearance, 
however, in due time and place, is prepared and 
shadowed forth in many beautiful allusions : for 
instance, it is she who descending from the empyreal 
height, sends Virgil to be the deliverer of Dante 
in the mysterious forest, and his guide through the 
abysses of torment. 

Io son Beatrice che ti faccia andare ; 
Vegno di loco ove tornar disio: 
Amor mi mosse che mi fa parlare. 

Inferno, o. 2. 

" I who now bid thee on this errand forth 
Am Beatrice ; from a place I come 
Revisited with joy; love brought me thence, 
Who prompts my speech." 

Caret's Trans. 

And she is indicated, as it were, several times is 
the course of the poem, in a manner which pro 



HFATIUCE. 101 

pares us for the sublimity with which the is at 
.ength introduced, io all the majesty of a superior 
nature, all the, dreamy splendor of an ideal pre* 
ence, and all the melancholy charm of a beloved and 
lamented reality. When Dante has left the con- 
fines of Purgatory, a wondrous chariot approaches 
from afar, surrounded by a (light of angelic beings, 
and veiled in a cloud of flowers (" un nuvola di 
fiori," is the beautiful expression.) — A female form 
is at length apparent in the midst of this angelic 
pomp, seated in the car, and " robed in hues of 
living flame ; " she is veiled : he cannot discern her 
features, but there moves a hidden virtue from 
her, 

At whose touch 
The power of ancient love was strong within him. 

He recognizes the influence which even in his 
childish days had smote him — 

Che gia m' avea trafitto 
Prima eh' io fuor della puerizia fosse ; 

and his failing heart and quivering frame confess 
the thrilling presence of his Beatrice — 

Conosco i segni dell' antica fiamma I 

The whole passage is as beautifully wrought as it 
is feelingly and truly conceived. 

Beatrice, — no longer the soft, frail and feminine 
being he had known and loved vpon earth, but as 
admonishing spirit, — rises up in her chariot, 



104 BEATRICE. 

And with a mien 
Of that stern majesty which doth surround 
A mother's presence to her awe-struck child, 
She looked — a flavor of such bitterness 
Was mingled with her pity ! 

Carey's Trans. 

Dante then puts into her mouth the most severe 
yet eloquent accusation against himself: while he 
stands weeping by, bowed down by shame and 
anguish. She accuses him before the listening 
angels for his neglected time, his wasted talents, his 
forgetfulness of her, when she was no longer upon 
earth to lead him with the light of her " youthful 
eye," (gli occhi giovinetti.) 

Soon as I had changed 
My mortal for immortal, then he left me, 
And gave himself to others ; when from flesh 
To spirit I had risen, and increase 
Of beauty and virtue circled me, 
I was less dear to him and valued less ! 

Purgatory, c. 30. — Carey's Trans. 

This praise of herself and stern upbraiding of hei 
lover, would sound harsh from woman's lips, but 
have a solemnity, and even a sublimity, as uttered 
by a disembodied and angelic being. When Dante, 
weeping, falters out a faint excuse — 

Thy fair looks withdrawn, 
Things present with deceitful pleasures turned 
My steps aside, — 

«he answers by reproaching him with his incon 
vtancy to her memory : — 



BBATBIO] 193 

Never didst thou 
In art or nature aught BO DW 
As were the limbs that in their beauteous frame 
Enclosed DM, Bud are scattered now ill dust. 
If sweetest thing thus tailed tlieo wit h my doath 
What afterward of mortal should thy wish 
Have tempted? PUBQATOBT, c. 31. 

And she rebukes him, for that he could stoop from 
the memory of her love to be the thrall of a alight 
yirl. This last expression is supposed to allude 
either to Dante's unfortunate marriage with Gemma 
Douati,* or to the attachment he formed during 
his exile tor a beautiful Lueehese named Gentueea, 

the subject of several of his poems. But, notwith- 
standing all this severity of censure, Dante gazing 
on his divine monitress, is so rapt by her Loveliness, 
his eyes so eager to recompense themselves for 
h their ten years' thirst," (Beatrice had been dead 
ten years,) that not being yet freed from the stain 
of his earthly nature, he is warned not to gaze 
11 too fixedly" on her charms. After a farther pro- 
bation, Beatrice introduces him into the various 
spheres which compose the celestial paradise ; and 
thenceforward she certainly assumes the character- 
istics of an allegorical being. The true distinction 
9eems this, that Dante has not represented Divine 
Wisdom under the name and form of Beatriee, but 

• This marriage was one of policy, and negotiated by the friendi 
«f Dante and of Gemma Donati : her temper was violent anl 
iarsli, and their domestic peace was, probably, not increased by 
ttante's obstinate regret for his first lova. 



106 BEATRICE. 

Ihe more to exalt his Beatrice, he has clothed hei 
in the attributes of Divine Wisdom. 

She at length ascends with him into the Heaven 
of Heavens, to the source of eternal and uncreated 
light, without shadow and without bound ; and 
when Dante looks round for her, he finds she has 
quitted his side, and has taken her place throned 
among the supreme blessed, " as far above him as 
the region of thunder is above the centre of the 
Bea ; " he gazes up at her in a rapture of love and 
devotion, and in a sublime apostrophe invokes her 
still to continue her favor towards him. She looks 
down upon him from her effulgent height, smiles 
on him with celestial sweetness, and then fixing her 
eyes on the eternal fountain of glory, is absorbed 
in ecstasy. Here we leave her ; the poet had 
touched the limits of permitted thought ; the seraph 
wings of imagination, borne upwards by the inspi- 
ration of deep love, could no higher soar, — the 
audacity of genius could dare no farther ! 
***** 

Dante died at Eavenna in 1321, and was surap 
tuously interred at the cost of Guido da Polenta, 
the father of that unfortunate Francesca di Rimini, 
whose story he has so exquisitely told in the fifth 
canto of the Inferno. He left several sons and an 
only daughter, whom he had named Beatrice, in 
remembrance of his early love : she became a nun 
sit Ravenna. 

Now where, in the name of all truth and aV 
feeling, were the heads, or rather the hearts, of 



rim.ii'i'A iMCAUD. 107 

„hose commentators, wlio could see nothing in the 
Beatrice thus beautifully portrayed, thus tenderly 
lamented, and thus sublimely commemorated, but 

a mere allegorical penonage, the creation of a 
poet's fancy? Nothing can come of nothing; and 
it was no unreal or imaginary being who turned 
the course of Dante's ardent passions and active 
spirit, and burning enthusiasm, into one sweeping 
torrent of love and poetry, and gave to Italy and 
to the world the Divina Commedia ! 



CHAPTER X. 

CHAUCER AND PHILIPPA PICARD. 

After Italy, England, — who has ever trod in her 
footsteps, and at length outstripped her in the race 
of intellect, — was the next to produce a great and 
prevailing genius in poetry, a master spirit, whom 
no change of customs, manners, or language can 
render wholly obsolete ; and who was destined, like 
the rest of his tribe, to bow before the influence of 
woman, to toil in her praise, and soar by hei 
inspiration. 

Seven years after the death of Dante, Chaucei 
was born, and he was twenty-four years younger 
.nan Petrarcn, whom he met at Padua in 1373* 



i08 PHILIPPA PICAR1>. 

this meeting between the two great poets was 
memorable in itself, and yet more interesting for 
having first introduced into the English language 
that beautiful monument to the virtue of women,— 
the story of Griselda. 

Boccaccio had lately sent to his friend the MS. 
of the Decamerone, of which it is the concluding 
tale : the tender fancy of Petrarch, refined by a 
forty years' attachment to a gentle and elegant 
female, passed over what was vicious and blamable, 
or only recommended by the wit and the style, and 
fixed with delight on the tale of Griselda ; so beau- 
tiful in itself, and so honorable to the sex whom he 
had poetically deified in the person of one lovely 
woman. He amused his leisure hours in translat- 
ing it into Latin, and having finished his version, 
he placed it in the hands of a citizen of Padua, 
and desired him to read it aloud. His friend 
accordingly began ; but as he proceeded, the over- 
powering pathos of the story so affected him, that 
he was obliged to stop; he began again, but was 
unable to proceed ; the gathering tears blinded 
him, and choked his voice, and he threw down the 
manuscript. This incident, which Petrarch him- 
self relates in a letter to Boccaccio, occurred about 
ihe period when Chaucer passed from Genoa to 
Padua to visit the poet and lover of Laura — 

Quel grande, alia cui fama angusto 6 il mondo. 

Petrarch must have regarded the English poei 
with that wondering, enthusiastic admiration witk 



PHILIPPE PICABD. 103 

nhich wo should now hail a Milton ora Shakapeare 
iprung from Otaheite or Nora Zembla; and hi* 
bear! and soul being naturally occupied by his 
latest work, be repeated the experiment he had 
before tried on his Paduan friend. The impret- 

nion which the (Jriselda produced upon the vivid, 
susceptible imagination of Chaucer, may be judged 
from his own beautiful version of it in the Canter- 
bury Tales; where the barbarity and improbability 
of the incidents are so redeemed by the pervading 
truth and purity and tenderness of the sentiment, 
that I suppose it never was perused for the first 
time without tears. Chaucer, as if proud of his 
interview with Petrarch, and anxious to publish it, 
is careful to tell us that he did not derive the story 
from Boccaccio, but that it was 

Learned at Padua of a worthy clerk, 
As proved by his wordes and his work; 
Francis Petrark, the Laureat Poete; 

which is also proved by internal evidence. 

Chaucer so far resembled Petrarch, that, like 
him, he was at once poet, scholar, courtier, states- 
man, philosopher, and man of the world ; but con- 
Bidered merely as poets, they were the very anti- 
podes of each other. The genius of Dante has 
been compared to a Gothic cathedral, vast and 
lofty, and dark and irregular. In the same spirit, 
Petrarch may be likened to a classical and elegant 
Greek temple, rising aloft in its fair and faultless 
oroportions, and compacted of the purest Parian 



110 PHILIPIA PICARD. 

marble; while Chaucer is like the far-spreading 
and picturesque palace of the Alhambra, with its 
hundred chambers, all variously decorated, and 
rich with barbaric pomp and gold: he is famed 
rather as the animated painter of character, and 
manners, and external nature, than the poet of 
love and sentiment; and yet no writer, Shakspeare 
always excepted, (and perhaps Spenser) contains 
bo many beautiful and tender passages relating to y 
or inspired by women. He lived, it is true, in rude 
times, strangely deficient in good taste and deco- 
rum ; but when all the institutions of chivalry, 
under the most chivalrous of our kings and princes,* 
were at their height in England. As a poet, 
Chaucer was enlisted into the service of three of 
the most illustrious, most beautiful, and most accom- 
plished women of that age — Philippa, the high- 
hearted and generous Queen of Edward the Third ; 
the Lady Blanche of Lancaster, first wife of John 
of Gaunt ; and the lovely Anne of Bohemia, the 
Queen of Richard the Second ; f for whom, and at 
whose command, he wrote his " Legende of Gode 

* Edward m. and the Black Prince. 

t She was popularly distinguished as the " good Queen Anne," 
and as dear to her husband as to her people. Richard, who with 
many and fetal faults, really possessed sensibility and strong do- 
mestic affections with which Shakspeare has so finely portrayed 
him, was passionately devoted to his amiable wife. She died 
young, at the Palace of Sheen ; and when Richard afterwards vis- 
ited the scene of his loss, he solemnly cursed it in his anguish. 
and commanded it to be razed to the ground, which was done, 
One of our kings afterwards rebuilt it. I think Henry the S©» 
•nth. 



I'irn.iiTA ri(Aur>. ill 

Woman, " ai some amends far tin; goanaal be bs4 

Ipokcn of US in other places. Tin' Countess of 

the Countess of Pembroke, and that. beauti- 
ful Lady Salisbury, the aneestress of tin- Montagu 

family, whose famous miseliaiK c gave rise to the 
Order of the darter, were also among Chaucer's 
patronesses. But the most distinguished of all, and 
the favorite subject of his poetry, was the Duohesi 
Blanche. The manner in which he has contrived 
to celebrate his own loves and individual feelingi 
with those of Blanche and her royal suitor, has 
given additional interest to both, and has enabled 
his commentators to fix with tolerable certainty 
the name and rank of the object of his love, as 
well as the date and circumstances of his attach- 
ment. 

In the earliest of Chaucer's poems, " The Court 
of Love," he describes himself as enamoured of a 
fair mistress, whom, in the style of the time, he 
calls Rosial, and himself Philogenet : the lady is 
described as " sprung of noble race and high," with 
"angel visage," "golden hair," and eyes orient 
and bright, with figure, " sharply slender," 

So that from the head unto the foot all is sweet woman- 
head, 

and arrayed in a vest of green, with her tresses 
praided with silk and gold. She treats him at first 
•with disdain, and the Poet swoons away at her 
feet : satisfied by this convincing proof of his sin- 
terity, she is induced to accept his homage, and 



112 PHILIPPA PICARD. 

becomes his " liege ladye," and the sovereign of 
his thoughts. In this poem, which is extremely wild, 
and has come down to us in an imperfect state, 
Chaucer quaintly admonishes all lovers, that an ab- 
solute faith in the perfection of their mistresses, 
and obedience to her slightest caprice, are among 
the first duties ; that they must in all oases believe 
their ladye faultless ; that, 

In every thing she doth but as she should. 
Construe the best, believe no tales new, 
For many a lie is told that seem'th full true ; 
But think that she, so bounteous and so fair, 
Could not be false ; imagine this alway. 

* * * * 

And tho' thou seest a fault right at thine eye, 
Excuse it quick, and glose it prettily.* 

Nor are they to presume on their own worthiness, 
nor to imagine it possible they can earn 

By right, her mercie, nor of equity, 
But of her grace and womanly pitye.f 

There is, however, no authority for supposing 
that at the time this poem was written, Chaucer 
really aspired to the hand of any lady of superior 
birth, or was very seriously in love ; he was then 
about nineteen, and had probably selected some 
fair one, according to the custom of his age, to be 
Jus " fancy's queen," and in the same spirit of po» 

• Court of Love, v. 369-412. t IWd. 






raXLlFPA ricAKD. IIS 

itical gallantry, he write! to do her honor; he sava 
himself, 

My intent and all my busio care 

Is for to write this treatise as I can, 

Unto my ladye, stable, true, and eure; 

Faithful and kind sith firste that she began 

Me to accept in 6ervice as her man ; 

To her bo all the pleasures of this book, 

That, when her like, she may it redo and loa*.* 

Mixed up with all this gallantry and refinement 
are some passages inconceivably absurd and gross ; 
but such were those times, — at once rude and mag- 
nificent — an odd mixture of cloth of frieze and 
cloth of gold ! 

The " Parliament of Birds," entitled in many 
editions, the " Assembly of Fowls" celebrates alle- 
gorically the courtship of John of Gaunt and 
Blanche of Lancaster. 

Blanche, as the greatest heiress of England, with 
a duchy for her portion, could not fail to be sur- 
rounded by pretenders to her hand; but after a 
year of probation, she decided in favor of John of 
Gaunt, who thus became Duke of Lancaster in 
right of his bride. This youthful and princely 
pair were then about nineteen. 

The " Parliament of Birds " being written in 
1858, when Blanche had postponed her choice for 
a year, has fixed the date of Chaucer's attachment 
to the lady he afterwards married; for here he 

* Court of Love, v. S6-42. 
8 



114 PHILIPPA PICARD. 

describes himself as one who had not yet felt thi 
full power of love — 

For albeit that I know not love indeed, 
Ne wot how that he quitteth folks their hire, 
Yet happeth me full oft in hooks to read 
Of his miracles. 

But the time was come when the poet, now in 
his thirty-second year, was destined to feel that a 
Btrong attachment for a deserving object — for one 
who will not be obtained unsought, " was no sport," 
as he expresses it, but 

Smart and sorrow, and great heavinesse. 

During the period of trial which Lady Blanche 
had inflicted on her lover, it was Chaucer's fate to 
fall in love in sad earnest. — The object of this 
passion, too beautifully and unaffectedly described 
not to be genuine, was Philippa Picard de Rouet, 
the daughter of a knight of Hainault, and a favor- 
ite attendant of Queen Philippa. Her elder sister 
Catherine, was at the same time maid of honor to 
the Duchess Blanche. Both these sisters were dis- 
tinguished at Court for their beauty and accom- 
plishments, and were the friends and companions 
of the Princesses they served : and both are singu- 
larly interesting from their connection, political and 
poetical, with English history and literature. 

Philippa Picard is one of the principal person 
Iges in the poem entitled " Chaucer's Dream, 



rilll.IITA I'M AIM). 115 

Ivhich Ifl a kind of epithalamium celebrating the 

barriage of John of (Jaunt with the Lady Blanche, 
which took place at Reading, May 19, 1359. It ii 
a wild fanciful vision of fairy-land and enchant- 
ments, of which I cannot attempt to give an analy- 
sis. In the opening lines, written about twelve 
months after the u Parliament of Birds," we find 
Chaucer in deep love, according to all its forms. 
lie is lying awake, 

About such hour as lovers weep 
And cry after their lady's grace, 

thinking on his mistress — all her goodness and all 
her sweetness, and marvelling how heaven had 
formed her so exceeding fair, 

And in so litel space 
Made such a body and such a face, 
So great beauty, and such features, 
More than be in other creatures ! 

He falls into a dream as usual, and in the con- 
clusion fancies himself present at the splendid fes- 
tivities which took place at the marriage of his 
patron. The ladye of his affection is described as 
the beloved friend and companion of the bride. 
She is sent to grace the marriage ceremony with 
ber presence ; and Chaucer seizes the occasion to 
plead his suit for love and mercy. Then the 
Prince, the Queen, and all the rest of the Court, 
»uite in conjuring the lady *o have pity on hit 



116 PHILIPPA PICARD. 

pain, and recompense his truth ! she smiles, and 
frith a pretty hesitation at last consents. 

Sith his will and yours are one, 
Contrary in me shall be none. 

They are married : the ladies and the knights wish 
them 

Heart's pleasance, 



In joy and health continuance ! 

The minstrels strike up, — the multitude send forth 
a shout ; and in the midst of these joyous and tri* 
umphant sounds, and in the troubled exultation of 
his own heart, the sleeper bounds from his couch,— 

Wening to have been at the feast, 

and wakes to find it all a dream. He looks around 
for the gorgeous marriage-feast, and instead of the 
throng of knights and ladies gay, he sees nothing 
but the figures staring at him from the tapestry. 

On the walls old portraiture 
Of horsemen, of hawks and hounds, 
And hurt deer all full of wounds ; 
Some like torn, some hurt with shot; 
And as my dream was, that was not ! * 

He is plunged in grief to find himself thus reft 
ti all his visionary joys, and prays to sleep again 

* i. e. tte tapestn , like my dream, was a representation, not 

reality 



PHILIPPA PIOA&D. 111 

End dream thus for aye, or at least u a thousand 
rears and ten." 

Lo, here my bliss! — lo, here my pain! 
Which to my ladye I oomplain, 

And grace and mercy of her requere. 
To end my woe and aD my fear; 
And me accept for her service- 
That of my dream, the substance 
Might turnen, once, to cognizance.* 

And the whole concludes with a very tender 
"envoi," expressly addressed to Philippa, although 
the poem was written in honor of his patrons, the 
Duke and Duchess. It has been well observed, 
that nothing can be more delicate and ingenious 
than the manner in which Chancer has compli- 
mented his mistress, and ventured to shadow forth 
his own hopes and desires ; confessing, at the same 
time, that they were built on air and ended in a 
dream : it may be added, that nothing can be more 
picturesque and beautiful, and vigorous, than some 
of the descriptive parts of this poem. 

There is no reason to suppose that Philippa was 
absolutely deaf to the suit, or insensible to the fame 
and talents of her poet-lover. The delay which 
took place was from a cause honorable to her char- 

* Chaucer's Dreame, v. 2186. " Here also Is showed Chancer'! 
loafoh with a certain gentlewoman, who was so well liked ani 
toied of the Lady Blanche and her Lord, (as Chaucer himself al* 
*as,) that gladly they concluded a marriage between them." — Ar 
\vmtnts to Chaucer' 1 s Works. Edit. 159 7 . 



t!8 PHILIPPA PICARD. 

acter and her heart ; it arose from the declining 
health of her royal mistress, to whom she was most 
Btrongly and gratefully attached, and whose noble 
qualities deserved all her affection. It appears, 
from a comparison of dates, that Chaucer endured 
a suspense of more than nine years, during which 
he was a constant and fervent suitor of his ladye's 
grace. In this interval he translated the Eomaunt 
of the Rose, the most famous poetical work of the 
middle ages. He addressed it to his mistress : and 
it is remarkable that a very elaborate and cynical 
satire on women, which occurs in the original 
French, is entirely omitted by Chaucer in his ver- 
sion ; perhaps because it would have been a prof- 
anation to her who then ruled his heart ; on other 
occasions he showed no such forbearance. 

In the year 1369, Chaucer lost his amiable pat- 
roness, the Duchess Blanche; she died in hei 
thirtieth year ; he lamented her death in a long 
poem, entitled the " Booke of the Duchesse." The 
truth of the story, the virtues, the charms, and the 
youth of the Princess, the grief of her husband, 
and the simplicity and beauty of many passages, 
render this one of the most interesting and striking 
of all Chaucer's works. 

The description of Blanche, in the " Booke of 
the Duchesse," shows how trifling is the difference 
between a perfect female character in the thir- 
teenth century, and what would now be considered 
as such. It is a very lively and animated picture 
Her goldon hair and laughing eyes ; her skill ii 



PIULIVTA I'lCAItP. 11$ 

flanCIBff, and her sweet carolling; lier "goodly 
and friendly speerli;" her debonair looks; her 
gayety that was still - 4 BO womanly ; " hor indifference 
to gene ra l admiration ; lier conntenance, " that 
was so simple and so benigne," contrasted with her 
high-spirited modesty and eonsriousness of lofty 
birth, 

No living wight might do her shame, 
SJie loved so well her own name. 

her disdain of that coquetry which holds men 
u in balance," 

By half word or by countenance ; 

her wit, " without malice, and ever set upon glad- 
nesse ; " and her goodness, which the Poet with a 
nice discrimination of female virtue, distinguishes 
from mere ignorance of evil — for though in all her 
actions was perfect innocence, he adds, 

I eay not that she had no knowing 

What harm was ; for, else, she 

Had known no good — so thinketh me ; 

are all beautifully and happily set forth, and are 
charms so appropriate to woman, as woman, that no 
change of fashion or lapse of ages can alter theif 
effect Time 

u Can draw no lines there with his antique per." 



120 PHILIPPA PICARD. 

But afterwards follows a trait peculiarly chaiacter* 
istic of the women of that chivalrous period. She 
was not, says Chaucer, one of those ladies who 
send their lovers off 

To Walachie, 
To Prussia, and to Tartary, 
To Alexandria, ne Tnrkie ; 

and on other bootless errands, by way of display 
ing their power. 

She used no such JcnacJcs small. 

That is, she was superior to such frivolous tricks. 

John of Gaunt, who is the principal speaker and 
chief mourner in the poem, gives a history of his 
courtship, and tells with what mixture of fear 
and awe, he then " right young," approached the 
lovely heiress of Lancaster: but bethinking him 
that Heaven could never have formed in any crea« 
ture so great beauty and bounty " withouten mer 
cie," — in that hope he makes his confession of love 
and he goes on to tell us, with exquisite nawet^— 

I wot not well how I began, 

Full evil rehearse it, I can: 

***** 

For many a word I overskipt 

In telling my tale — for pure fear, 

Lest that my words misconstrued were. 

Softly, and quaking for pure dred, 

And shame, — 

Full oft I wax'd both pale and red; 

I durst not once look her on, 

For wit, manner, and all was gone ; 

I said, " Mercie, sweet! " — and no more. 



riiiT.ii'i'A FXOJLBD 121 

Then his anguish at her fust rejection, and hil 
rapture when, at last, lie wins from his lady 

The noblo gift of her morcie ; 

his domestic happiness — his loss, and his regrets, 
are all told with the same truth, simplieity, and 
profound feeling. For such passages and such pic- 
tures as these, Chaucer will still be read, triumph- 
ant as the poet of nature, over the rust and dust 
of ages, and all the difficulties of anticpue style 
and obsolete spelling; which last, however, though 
repulsive, is only a difficulty to the eye, and easily 
overcome. 

To return to Chaucer's own love. In the opening 
lines of the " Booke of the Duchosse," he describes 
himself as wasted with his "eight years' sicknesse." 
alluding to his long courtship of the coy Philippa: 

I have great wonder, by this light, 
How that I live ! — for day nor night 
I may not sleepen well-nigh nought: 
I have so many an idle thought 
Purely for the default of sleep ; 
That, by ray troth, I take no keep 
Of nothing — how it com'th or go'th, 
To me is nothing liefe or lothe ; * 
All is equal good *:o me, 
Joy or sorrow — whereso it be; 
For I have feeling in no thing 
But am, as 'twere, a mazed t thing, 

• To me there Is nothing dear or hateful, every thing la Indtf 
hrmt. 

* Mazed,— distracted. 



i22 PHILIPPA PICABD. 

All day in point to fall adown 
For sorrowful imagination, &c. 

In the same year with the Duchess died the good 
Queen of Edward the Third ; and Philippa Picard 
Deing thus sadly released from her attendance on 
her mistress, a few months afterwards married 
Chaucer, then in his forty-second year. 

In consequence of her good service, Philippa 
had a pension for her life ; and I regret that little 
more is known concerning her : but it should seem 
that she was a good and tender wife, and that long 
years of wedded life did not weaken her husband's 
attachment for her ; for she accompanied Chaucer 
when he was exiled, about fifteen years after his 
marriage, though every motive of prudence and 
selfishness, on both sides, would then have induced 
a separation.* Neither was the poet likely to be 
easily satisfied on the score of conjugal obedience ; 
he was rather exigeant and despotic, if we may 
trust his own description of a perfect wife. The 
chivalrous and poetical lover was the slave of hia 
mistress ; but once married, it is all vice versa. 

She saith not once nay, when he saith yea, 

" Do this," saith he, " all ready, Sir," saith she! 

The precise date of Philippa's death is not known 
out it took place some years before that of her 
husband. Their residence at the time of theii 
marriage, was a small stone building, near the en 
trance of Woodstock Park; it had been given ti 

* Godwin^ Life of Chaucer, t. iii. p. 6. 



PIIIMPPA PICARD. l23 

Chaucer bv Edward Khfl Third ; afterwards they 
resided principally at Donnington Castle, that fine 
and striking: ruin, which must he reiueiuhered by 
all who have travelled the Newberry road. In the 
doinaiu attached to this eastle were three oaks, of 
remarkable size and beauty, to which Chaucer 
gave the names of the Queen's oak, the King's oak, 
and Chaucer's oak ; these venerable trees were 
felled in Evelyn's time, and are commemorated in 
his Sylva, as among the noblest of their species. 

Philippa's eldest son, Thomas Chaucer, had a 
daughter, Alice, who became the wife of William 
de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk, the famous favorite 
of Margaret of Anjou. The grandson of Alice 
Chaucer, by the Duke of Suffolk, John, Earl of 
Lincoln, was declared heir to the Crown by Rich- 
ard the Third ; * and had the issue of the battle 
of Bos worth been different, would undoubtedly 
have ascended the throne of England ; — as it was, 
the lineage of Chaucer was extinguished on a 
scaffold. 

The fate of Catherine Picard de Kouet, the sister 
of Chaucer's wife was still more remarkable, — she 
was destined to be the mother of a line of kings. 

She had been domicella, or maid of honor, tc 
the Duchess Blanche, after whose death, the infant 
children of the Princess were committed to her 
care.f In this situation she won the heart of their 

* In right of his mother, Elizabeth Plantagenet, eldest state* 
if Edward IV. 

t These were Henry of Lancaster, afterwards Henry TV., Phi 
Ippa, Queen of Portugal, and Elizabeth, Ducness of Exeter. 



124 PHILIPPA PICARD. 

father, the Duke of Lancaster, who, on the death 
of his second wife, Constance of Castile, married 
Catherine, and his children by her were solemnly 
Legitimatized. The conduct of Catherine, except 
in one instance, had been irreproachable : her hu- 
mility, her prudence, and her various accomplish- 
ments, not only reconciled the royal family and 
the people to her marriage, but added lustre to her 
rank : and when Richard the Second married Isa- 
bella of France, the young Queen, then only nine 
years old, was placed under the especial care and 
tuition of the Duchess of Lancaster. 

One of the granddaughters of Catherine, Lady 
Jane Beaufort, had the singular fortune of becom- 
ing at once the inspiration and the love of a great 
poet, the queen of an accomplished monarch, and 
the common ancestress of all the sovereigns of 
England since the days of Elizabeth.* 

Never, perhaps, was the influence of woman on 
a poetic temperament more beautifully illustrated, 
than in the story of James the First of Scotland, 
and Lady Jane Beaufort. It has been so elegantly 
told by Washington Irving in the Sketch-Book, 
that it is only necessary to refer to it. — James, 
while a prisoner, was confined in Windsor Castle. 

* Catherine, Duchess of Lancaster, had three sons : the second 
was the famous Cardinal Beaufort ; the eldest (created Earl of 
Somerset) was grandfather to Henry the Seventh, and conse* 
quently ancestor to the whole race of Tudor: thus from th« 
Bister of Chaucer's wife are descended all the English sovereigns 
from the fifteenth century ; and likewise the present family & 
Somerset, Dukes of Beaufort. 



i • r 1 1 1 . 1 1 • i * a riCAKD. 128 

and immediately under his window there was a lair 
garden, in which the Lady Jane was accustomed 
to walk with her attendants, distinguished above 

them all by her beauty and dignity, even more 

than her state and the richness of her attire. The 
young monarch beheld her accidentally, his imag- 
ination was fired, his heart captivated, and from 

that moment his prison was no longer a dungeon, 
but a palaee of light and love. As he was the best 
poet and musician of his time, he composed songs 
in her praise, set them to music, and Bang them to 
his lute. He also wrote the history of his love, 
with all its circumstances, in a long poem * still 
extant; and though the language be now obsolete, 
it is described by those who have studied it, as not 
only full of beauties both of sentiment and expres- 
sion, but unpolluted by a single thought or allusion 
which the most refined age, or the most fastidious 
delicacy could reject ; — a singular distinction, when 
we consider that James's only models must have 
been Gower and Chaucer, to whom no such praise 
is due : we must rather suppose that he was no 
imitator, but that he owed his inspiration to modest 
and queenly beauty, and to the genuine tender- 
ness of his own heart. His description of the fair 
apparition who came to bless his solitary hours, is 
so minute and peculiar, that it must have been 
drawn from the life ; — the net of pearls, in which 
her light tresses were gathered up ; the chain of 
fine-wrought gold about her neck ; the heart-shaped 

• " The King's Quhair," (I e. eahier or book J 



„26 PHILIPPA PICARD. 

ruby suspended from it, which glowed on hei 
inowy bosom like a spark of fire ; her white vest 
looped up to facilitate her movements ; her grace- 
ful damsels who followed at a respectful distance ; 
and her little dog gambolling round with her with 
its collar of silver bells, — these, and other pictu- 
resque circumstances, were all noted in the lover's 
memory, and have been recorded by the poet's 
verse. And he sums up her perfections thus : — 

In her was youth, beauty, and numble port, 
Bountee, richesse, and womanly feature. 

God better knows than my pen can report, 
Wisdom, largesse,* estate,! and cunning J sure* 

In every point so guided her measure, 
In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 
That nature could no more her child advance. 

The account of his own feelings as she disappears 
from his charmed gaze, — his lingering at the win- 
dow of his tower, till Phoebus 

Had bid farewell to every leaf and flower, — 

then resting his head pensively on the cold stone, 
and the vision which steals upon his half-waking 
half-dreaming fancy, and shadows forth the happy 
issue of his love, — are all conceived in the most 
lively manner. It is judged from internal evidence, 
that this poem must have been finished after his 
marriage, since he intimates that he is blessed in 
the possession of her he loved, and that the fail 
vision of the solitary dungeon is realized. 

• Liberality. t Dignity. J Knowledge and discretion. 



vuu. ippa riCARD. 127 

When the. King of Scots was released, he wooed 
and won openly, and as a monarch, the woman he 
had adored in secret. The marriage TOfl solemnized 
in 1428, and lie carried Lady .Jane to Scotland 
where she was crowned soon after his bride and 
queen. 

How well she merited, and how deeply sh-e re- 
paid the love of her devoted and all-accomplished 
husband, is told in history. When James was sur- 
prised and murdered by some of his factious 
barons, his queen threw herself between him and 
the daggers of the assassins, received many of the 
wounds aimed at his heart, nor could they complete 
their purpose till they had dragged her by force 
from his arms. She deserved to be a poet's queen 
and love ! These are the souls, the deeds which 
inspire poetry, — or rather which are themselves 
poetry, its principle and its essence. It was on 
this occasion that Catharine Douglas, one of the 
queen's attendants, thrust her arm into the stanchion 
of the door to serve the purpose of a bolt, and held 
it there till the savage assailants forced their way 
by shattering the frail defence. What times were 
those ! — alas I the love of women, and the barbarity 
of men I 



128 LUCRETIA DONATL 



CHAPTER XL 

LORENZO DE* MEDICI AND LUCRETIA DONATL 

To Lorenzo de' Medici, — or rather to the pre- 
eminence his personal qualities, his family posses- 
sions, and his unequalled talents, gave him over hia 
countrymen, — some late travellers and politicians 
have attributed the downfall of the liberties of 
Florence, and attacked his memory as the pre- 
cursor of tyrants and the preparer of slaves. It 
may be so : — yet was it the fault of Lorenzo, if his 
collateral posterity afterwards became the oppress- 
ors of that State of which he was the family and 
the saviour ? And since in this world some must 
command and some obey, what power is so legiti- 
mate as that derived from the influence of superior 
virtue and talent ? from the employ of riches 
obtained by honorable industry, and expended 
with princely munificence, and subscribed to by 
the will and the affections of the people ? 

But I forget : — these are questions foreign to our 
subject. Politics I never could understand in my 
life, and history I have forgotten, — or would wish 
to forget, — perplexed by its conflicting evidence, 
and shocked by its interminable tissue of horrors 
Let others then scale the height while we gather 
flowers at the foot ; let others explore the mazes 
of the forest : ours be rather 



LUCBETLA DQNATI. 129 

The pny parterre, the • bade, 

The Burning bower, the evening colonnade, 
Thoso soft recesses of unensy minds, 

whence the din of doleful war, the rumor of crneltj 

and goffering, and all (he '• fitful stir unprofitable* 
of the world are Bhut out, and only the beautiful 

and good, or the graceful and the gay, arc ad- 
mitted. There hare been pens enough, Heaven 
knows, to chronicle the wrongs, the crimes, the 

sorrows of our se\ : why should I add an echo to 
that voice, which from the beginning lias cried 
aloud in the wilderness of this world, upon women 
betrayed, and betraying in self-defence V A nobler 

and more grateful task be mine to show them how 
much of what is most fair, most excellent, most 

sublime among the productions of human genius, 
has been owing to their influence, direct or in- 
direct ; and call up the spirits of the dead, — those 
Who from their silent urns still rule the pulses of 
our hearts— to bear witness to this truth. 

* * * * 

It is not, then, Lorenzo the Magnificent, the 
statesman, and the chief of a great republic, who 
finds a place in these pages, — but Lorenzo the 
lover and the poet, round whose memory hover a 
thousand bright recollections connected with the 
revival of arts and literature, and the golden age 
of Italy. Let politicians say what they will, there 
is a spell of harmony, there is music in his very 
name 1 how sofiy tue vowellcd syllables drop from 
the lips— Lorenzo di:' Medici ! — it even look* 



130 LTJCKETIA DONATI. 

elegant when written. Yes, there is something m 
the mere sound of a name. I remember once 
taking up a book, and a very celebrated book, in 
which, after turning over some of the pages witb 
pleasure, I came to Peter and Laurence Medecis, — 
I shut it hastily, as I would have covered my earg 
to protect them from a sudden discord in music. 

Between Petrarch and Lorenzo de' Medici, there 
occurs not a single great name in Italian poetry. 
The century seemed to lie fallow, as if preparing 
for the great birth of various genius which dis- 
tinguished the succeeding age. The sciences and 
the classics were chiefly studied, and philosophy 
and Greek seemed to have banished love and 
poetry. 

In such a state of things, it is rather surprising 
to find in Lorenzo de' Medici the common case re- 
versed ; for by his own confession, it appears that 
it was not love which made him a poet, but poetry 
which made him a lover. 

Giuliano, the brother of Lorenzo, — he who was 
afterwards assassinated by the Pazzi, and was so 
beloved at Florence for his amiable character and 
personal accomplishments, had been seized with a 
passion for a lady named Simonetta, who was 
esteemed the most beautiful woman in Florence, 
and is scarcely ever mentioned but with the epithet, 
" La bella Simonetta." — She died in the bloom of 
early youth, and all the wit and eloquence of her 
native city were called forth in condolences ad« 
dressed to Giuliano, or elegies to her memory, ir 



LUGBETTA noNATl. 181 

prr^c and verse, Latin, Greek, and [talian. Among 
the rest, Lorenzo, who had already made several 
attempts in Italian poetry, pressed forward to 
telebrate the love and the loss of his amiable 

brother: — in his zeal to do justice to so dear a 

subject, he worked himself up into a fit of amo- 
rous and poetical enthusiasm which soon found a 
real and living beauty for its object But to give 
this romantia tale its proper effect, it must be re 

lated in Lorenzo's own words. He has left us a 
most circumstantial ami elegant as well as interest- 
ing and fanciful account of the birth and progress 
of his poetic passion, and I extract it at length 
from Mr. RoSCOe's translation. 

" A young lady of great personal attractions 
happened to die at Florence; and as she had been 
very generally admired and beloved, so her death 
was as generally lamented. Nor was this to be 
much wondered at ; for, independent of her beauty, 
her manners were so engaging, that almost every 
person who had any acquaintance with her flat- 
tered himself that he had obtained the chief place 
in her affections." (In other words, this beautiful 
Bimonetta was an exquisite coquette.) 

" This fatal event excited the extreme regret of 
aer admirers; and as she was carried to the place 
of burial, with her face uncovered, those who had 
known her when living, pressed for a last look at 
the object of their adoration, and accompanied her 
Mineral with their tears. 

u On this occasion, all the eloquence, an J all th« 



•32 LUCRETIA DONATI. 

wit of Florence were exerted in paying due 
honors to her memory, both in prose and verse. 
Amongst the rest, I also composed a few sonnets 
and in order to give them greater effect, I en- 
deavored to convince myself, that I too had been 
deprived of the object of my love, and to excite 
in my own mind all those passions that might 
enable me to move the affections of others. — Under 
the influence of this delusion, I began to think how 
severe was the fate of those by whom she had been 
beloved ; and from thence was led to consider, 
whether there was any other lady in this city de- 
serving of such honor and praise, and to imagine 
the happiness that must be experienced by any 
one, whose good fortune could procure him such a 
subject for his pen. I accordingly sought for some 
time without having the satisfaction of finding any 
one, who in my judgment was deserving of a 
sincere and constant attachment. But when I had 
nearly resigned all expectations of success, chance 
threw in my way that which had been denied to 
my most diligent inquiry ; as if the God of Love 
had selected this hopeless period, to give me a more 
decisive proof of his power. A public festival was 
held in Florence, to which all that was noble and 
beautiful in the city resorted. To this I waa 
brought by some of my companions (I suppose a? 
my destiny led) against my will, for I had for some 
time past avoided such exhibitions ; or if at times I' 
tttended them, it proceeded rather from a com» 
pliance with custom, than from any pleasure 



LI china DO* 1 1 i. LSI 

Experienced in them. Among tin; ladiei there 

■mnmUnd. I saw one of Bach sweet and attnu tive 
manners, that while I regarded her, I could not 
lu'l|> laying, ' It' this person were possessed of the 
delicacy, the understanding, tin- accomplishmenti 
of her who is so lately dead — most certainly she 

excels her in the charms of her person.' — 
***** 

" Resigning myself to my passion, I endeavored 
to discover, if possible, how far her manners and 
her COOTersation agreed with her appearance; and 
here I found neb an assemblage of extraordinary 
endowments, that it was difficult to say whether she 
excelled more in person or in mind. Her beauty 
was. as I have before mentioned, astonishing. She 
was of a just and proper height. Her complexion 
extremely fair, but not pale, — blooming but not 
ruddy. Her countenance was serious, without 
being severe, — mild and pleasant without levity or 
vulgarity. Her eyes were lively, without any indi- 
cation of pride or conceit. Her whole shape was 
so finely proportioned, that amongst other women 
she appeared with superior dignity, yet free from 
<he least degree of formality or affectation. In walk- 
ing, in dancing, or in other exercises which display 
ihe person, every motion was elegant and appro- 
priate. Her sentiments were always just and 
striking, and have furnished materials for some of 
my sonnets ; she always spoke at the proper time, 
%nd always to the purpose, so that nothing could 
te added, nothing taken away. Though her 



134 LUCRBTIA DONATI. 

remarks were often keen and pointed, yet they 
were so tempered as not to give offence. Her 
understanding was superior to her sex, but without 
the appearance of arrogance or presumption ; and 
ehe avoided an error too common among women, 
who, when they think themselves sensible, become 
for the most part insupportable.* To recount all 
her excellences would far exceed my present 
limits, and I shall therefore conclude with affirming, 
that there was nothing which could be desired in a 
beautiful and an accomplished woman, which wag 
not in her most abundantly found. By these quali- 
ties I was so captivated, that not a power or faculty 
of my body or mind remained any longer at liberty, 
and I could not help considering the lady who had 
died, as the star of Venus, which at the approach 
of the sun is totally overpowered and extin- 
guished." 

The real name of this beautiful and accomplished 
creature, Lorenzo was too discreet to reveal ; but 
from contemporary authors, we learn that she was 
Lucretia Donati — a noble lady, distinguished at 
Florence for her virtue and beauty, and of the 
same illustrious family which had given a wife to 
Pante. 

When Lorenzo undertook to fall in love thus 
poetically, he was only twenty : the experiment 
was perilous; and it is not wonderful that this 

* Lorenzo bells us in the origii ial, that the ladies who rendered 
hemselves thus insupportable, were called (vulgarly) Saccenti 
-query — vulgarly, Bluestockings ? 






LUCRETIA DON ATI. 135 

imaginary passion had at first in his ardent and 

inseeptiUe mind all the effects of a real one;: he 

aegleoted society — abandoned himself to musing 
and solitude — affected the rural shades, and gave 
up his time, and devoted all his powers, to cele- 
brate, in the richest coloring of poetry, her whom 
he had selected to be the mistress of his heart, or 
rather the presiding goddess of his fancy. 

The result is exactly what may be imagined, and 
a proof of the theory on which I insist, that " noth- 
ing hut what arises from the heart goes to the 
heart, and that the verse which never quickened a 
pulse in the bosom of the poet, never awakened a 
throb in that of his reader." If I were required 
to express in one word the distinguishing character 
of Lorenzo's amatory poems, I should say grace : 
they are full of refined sentiment, elegant simplic- 
ity, the most exquisite little touches of description, 
and illustrations, drawn either from external nature 
or from the refined mysteries of platonism : but 
there is a want of passion, of power, and of pathos; 
there is no genuine emotion ; no overflow of the 
heart, bursting with its own intense feeling ; no 
voice that cries aloud for our sympathy, and echoes 
to our inmost bosom. What true lover ever thought 
of apologizing for having given his time to celebrate 
the object of his love ? " Persecuted as I have 
oeen from my youth," says Lorenzo, " some indul- 
gence may perhaps be allowed me for having 
sought consolation in these pursuits." — And again, 
b allusion to his political situation,--" It is not to 



i36 LUCRETIA DONATI. 

be wondered at if I endeavoured to alleviate mj 
anxiety by turning to more agreeable subjects of 
meditation ; and in celebrating the charms of my 
mistress, sought a temporary refuge from my 
cares." — Thus Lorenzo tells us that it was not in 
obedience to the dictates of his own overflowing 
heart, nor yet to celebrate the charms of his mis- 
'tress, and win her favor, that he wrote in her 
praise, but to amuse himself and distract his mind 
from those cares and anxieties into which he was 
so early plunged. It has followed as a natural con- 
sequence, that elegant as are the amatory effusions 
of Lorenzo, they are less celebrated, less popular, 
than his descriptive and moral poems. His Ambra, 
La Nencia, and his songs for the carnival, have all 
in their respective style a higher stamp of excel- 
lence and originality than his love poetry. His 
forte seems to have been lively description, philo- 
sophical illustration, and brilliant and sportive 
fancy, combined with a classic taste and polished 
versification. Some of those sonnets, which, 
though addressed to Madonna Lucretia, turn 
chiefly on some beautiful thought or description, 
are finished like gems ; as that on Solitude — 

Cerchi chi vuol le pompe e gli alti onori ; 

and that well known and charming one, u Sopra 
Violetti," 

Non di verdi giardin, ornati e colti, &c. 
both of "which have been happily translated by 



LUCBI i i \ DOS I ii- 13' 

ftoecoe ; and to these may lie added the addresMG 

Cvtherea — 

Laaela V tola itna tanta dfiettel 
Lasoia il tno regno delicate e bello 
Ciprigna Dea! &C 

There is another, not so well known, distinguished 
by its peculiar fancy and elegance — 

Spesso mi tenia a inente, anzi gia mai, &c. 

In this he recalls to mind the time and the place, 
and even the vesture in which his gentle lady first 
appeared to him — 

Quanto vaga, gentQ, leggladra, e pia 

Non si puodir, ne imaginar assai; 

and he beautifully adds, 

Quale sopra i nevosi, ed alti monti 
Apollo spande il suo bel lume adorno, 
Tal' i crin suoi sopra la bianca gonna! 
H tempo e '1 luogo non convien ch' io conti, 
Che dov' e si bel sole e sempre giorno; 
E Paradiso, ov' e. si bella Donna! 

" As over the snowy summits of the high moun- 
tains Apollo sheds his golden beams, so flowed her 
golden tresses over her white vest. — But for the 
\ime and the place, is it necessary that I should note 
them ? "Where shines so fair a sun, can it be other 
than day ? Where dwells so excellent a beauty, 
can it be other than Paradise ? " 

It happened in the midst of Lorenzo's visions of 
love and poetry, that he was called upon to give hii 



188 LUCRB.TIA DON ATI. 

hand to a wife chosen by his father for political 
reasons. His inclinations were not consulted, as is 
plain from the blunt amusing manner in which he 
has noted it down in his memoranda. " I, Lorenzo, 
took to wife Donna Clarice Orsini, — or rather she 
was given to me, (ovvero mi fu data) on such a 
day." Yet a union thus inauspiciously contracted, 
was rendered, by the affectionate disposition of 
Lorenzo, and the amiable qualities of his wife, 
rather happy than otherwise ; it is true, we have 
no poetical compliments addressed by Lorenzo to 
Donna Clarice, but there is extant a little billet 
written to her a few months after their marriage, 
from the tone of which it is fair to suppose, that 
Lorenzo had exchanged his poetic flame for a real 
attachment to an amiable woman.* 

There is a very beautiful and elegant passage in 
the beginning of Lorenzo's commentary on his 
own poems, in which he enlarges on the theory of 
love. " The conditions (he says) which appear 
necessarily to belong to a true, exalted, and worthy 
love, are two. First, — to love out one : secondly,— 
to love that one always. Not many lovers have 

* Lorenzo de' Medici to his wife Clarice : — 

" I arrived here in safety, and am in good health ; this, I believe, 
will please thee better than any thing else, except my return 
Bt least so I judge from my own desire to be once more wit! 
feb.ee. Associate as much as possible with my father and sisters 
I shall make all possible speed to return to thee, for it appear! 
6 thousand years till I see thee again. Pray to God for me— -H 
tiiou want any thing from this place write in time. 

From Milan, 22d July, 1469. Thy Lorenzo." 



i.i • i: 1. 1 i \ dona n. JW 

hearts so generous as to be capable of fulfilling 
these two conditions ; and exceedingly few women 
display sufficient attractions to withhold men from 
the violation of them; yet without these there is 
no true love." Ami afterwards, enumerating those 
charms of person ami mind which inspire affection, 
he adds, " and yet these estimable qualities are not 
enough, unless the lover possess sensibility of heart 
to discern them, and elevation and generosity of 
Bonl to appreeiate them." 

This in the original is very elegantly expressed, 
and the sentiment is as true as it is exalted and 
graceful ; but that Lorenzo was not always thus 
philosophically refined, that he could descend from 
these Platonics to be impassioned and in earnest, 
and that when touched to the heart, he could pour 
forth the language of the heart, we have a single 
instance, which it is impossible to allude to without 
feeling some emotion of curiosity, which can nevei 
now be gratified. 

We find among Lorenzo's poems, written later 
in lite than those addressed to Lucretia Donati, one 
entitled simply " An Elegy ; " the style is different 
from that of his earlier poetry, and has more of the 
terseness and energy of Dante than the sweetness 
*nd flow of Petrarch. It begins 

" Vinto dagli amorosi, empi martin." 

M Subdued by the fierce pangs of my love, a 
thousand times have I taken up the pen, to telJ 



140 LUCRETIA DONATI. 

thee, O gentle lady mine, all the sighs of my sick 
heart. Then fearing thy displeasure, I have, on a 
Beeond thought, flung it from me. * * * Yet must 
I speak, for if words were wanting, my pallid cheek 
would betray my sufferings." 

He then tells her that he does not seek her dis- 
honor, but only her kind thoughts, and that he may 
and a place within her gentle heart 

Perche non cerco alcun tao disonore, 

Ma sol la grazia tua, e che piaci 

Che '1 rnio albergo sia dentro al tuo core ! 

He wishes that he might be once permitted to 
twine his fingers in her hair ; to gaze into her eyes ; 
— but he complains that she will not even meet his 
look, — that she resolutely turns her eyes another 
way at his approach. — " But do with me what thou 
wilt : while I live upon this earth, still I must love 
thee, since it so pleaseth Heaven — I swear it ! and 
my hand writes it ! 

***** 

".Come then ! oh come, while yet thy gracious 
looks may avail me, for delay is death to one who 
loves like me ! Would I could send with this scroll 
all the torture of heart, the tears and sighs, the 
gesture and the look, that should accompany it 1 " 

Ma s' egli awien, che soletti ambo insieme, 
Posso il braccio tenerti al collo awolto, 
Vedrai come d'amore alto arde e geme, 
Vedrai cader dal mio pallido volto, 
N3l tno candido sen lagrime tante. 



LUOBBTIA don \ !i. 14 j 

(T leave these linea antrandated for the bfr.efitof 

fhe Italian reader.) After a few more stair/as, we 
Have this very unequi voeal paSSS 

M () would to Heaven, lady, that marriage had 

made us one ! ah, win did>t thou QOl come into this 
world a little BOOner? — or I a little later? Yet 
why these vain thoughts? sinee I am doomed to 
§ee thee the bride of another, and am myself fet- 
tered in these marriage bonds ! 

4> Thou knowest. Madonna, that these sighs, these 
burning word-, are not feigned: for even as Love 
dictates does my hand write. 

♦ * » * * 

" My life and death are with thee ; — grant me 
but a few words, and I am contest to live ; — if not, 
let me die ! and let my poor remains be laid in 
pome forlorn and sequestered spot. Let none 
whisper the eause of my death, lest it should grieve 
thee ! enough if some kind hand engrave upon my 
tomb, — '■He perished through too much love and too 
much cruelty. ' " 

I have given literally the leading sentiments of 
this little poem, but have left untranslated many 
of the stanzas. There are one or two concetti; 
Vut as Ginguene" truly observes on a different 
occasion, " Dans les poetes Italiens, souvent la 
passion est viaie, meme quand l'expression ne Test 

[)<%3. 

The style is so natural, the transitions so abrupt^ 
Ihe expressions so energetic, and tnere are so few 



H2 LUCRETIA DONATI. 

&f those descriptive ornaments which are plenti* 
fully scattered through Lorenzo's other poems, that 
I should pronounce it the real effusion of a heart, 
touched, — and deeply touched. It is to be regret 
ted that we know nothing of the name or reaj 
character of an object who, deserving or not, could 
call forth such strong lines as these ; and in the 
plenitude of his power and fame, and in the midst 
of his great and serious avocations, deeply, though 
secretly, tyrannize over the peace of Lorenzo. 

He is accused, — I regret that I must allude to it, 
—of considerable license of manners with regard to 
women ; — a reproach from which Roscoe has fairly 
vindicated him. United, at the age of twenty-one, 
to a woman he had never seen ; residing in a dis- 
sipated capital, surrounded by temptation, and from 
disposition, peculiarly sensible to the influence of 
women, it is not matter of astonishment if Loren- 
zo's conjugal faith was not preserved immaculate, 
— if he occasionally became the thrall of beauty, 
and — (since he was not likely to be caught by vul- 
gar charms,) — if he sighed, par hazard, for one 
who was not to be tempted by power or gold : such 
a one as his Elegy indicates. Two points are cer- 
tain, — that his uniform respect and kindness to his 
wife Clarice, left her no reason to complain ; while 
his discretion was such, that though historians have 
hazarded a general accusation against him iu this 
one particular, there exists not in any contempo- 
rary writer one scandalous anecdote of his private 
life, nor the name of any woman to whom he war 



LU0B1 i i \ DOS a i r. 143 

Attached, excepl thai of his poetical love, Lucretia 

Donati. 

Lorenzo do' Medici was not handsome in lace, 
nor graceful in form; but he was captivating in hii 
manners, and excelled in all manly exercisea The 
engraving prefixed to Roecoe's life of him, does not 
do justice to his countenance. I remember the orig- 
inal picture in the gallery of Florence, on which 
I have looked day after day for many minutes to- 
gether, with an interest that can only be felt on 
the very -pot where the memory of Lorenzo is 
" wherever we look, wherever we move." In spite 

of the stoop in the shoulders, the unbecoming 
dress, and the harsh features, I was struck by the 
grand simplicity of" the head, and the mingled ex- 
pression of acuteness, benevolence, and earnest 
thought in the countenance ; the imagination rilled 
with the splendid character of the man, might pos- 
sibly have perceived more than the eye, — but such 
was my impression. 

Lorenzo died in his forty-fourth year, in 1492. 
He is not interred in that celebrated chapel of his 
family, rich with the sublimest productions of Mi- 
chael A.ngelo's chisel: he lies at the opposite side 
of the church, in a magnificent sarcophagus of 
bronze, which contains also the ashes of his mur- 
dered brother, Giuliano. — Among the recollections, 
*weet and hitter, which I brought from Florence, 
is the remembrance of a day when retiring from 
^ie glare of an Italian noontide, I stood in the 
thurch of San Lorenzo, sketching the tomb of ho- 



144 THL. FAIR GERALDINK. 

renzo and Giuliano de' Medici. The spot whence 
I viewed it was so obscure, that I could scarce see 
the lines traced by niy pencil ; but immediately be- 
hind the sarcophagus, there flowed from above a 
stream of strong light, relieving with added effect 
the dark outline of the sculptured ornaments. 
Through the grating which formed the background, 
I could see the figures of shaven monks and stoled 
priests gliding to and fro, like apparitions ; and 
while I thought more, — O much more, — of the still 
and cold repose which wrapped the dead, than of 
their high deeds and far-spread fame, the plaintive 
music of a distant choir, chanting the Via crucis, 
floated through the pillared aisles, receding or ap- 
proaching as the signers changed their station ; 
swelling, sinking, and at length dying away on the 
ear. 



CHAPTER XII. 



THE FAIR GERALDINE. 



In the reign of the second Grande Duke of Tua 
cany, of Lorenzo's family, (Cosmo I.) Florence, it 
is said, beheld a novel and extraordinary spectacle 
a young traveller, from a court and a country 
which the Italians of that day seemed to regard 



•! ii i i \ 1 1: <;i 1: AMMNR. 14.* 

much as we now do the Esquimaux,* combining 
the Learning of the scholar and the amiable bear- 
ing of the courtier, with all the rash bravery of 
youthful romance, astonished the inhabitants of 
that queenly city, first, by rivalling her polished 
nobles in the splendor of his state, and gallantry of 
his manners, and next, by boldly proclaiming that 
his " lady love " was superior to all that Italy could 
vaunt of beauty, that she was " oltre le belle, 
bella," fair beyond the fairest, — and maintaining 
his boast in a solemn tourney held in her honor, to 
the overthrow of all his opponents. 

This was our English Surrey ; one of the earli- 
est and most eleganl of our amatory poets, and the 
lover of the Fair (Jeraldine. 

It must be admitted that the fame of the Earl 
of Surrey does not rest merely on title, and that if 
the fair Geraldine had never existed, he would 
still have lived in history as an accomplished 
scholar, soldier, courtier, and been lamented as the 
noble victim of a suspicious tyrant. But if some 
fair object of romantic gallantry had not given the 
impulse to his genius, and excited him to try his 
powers in a style of which no models yet existed 
in his native language,! — it may be doubted 
whether his name would have descended to us 
with all those poetical and chivalrous associations 

* "Those bears of English — those barbarous islanders," are 
tommon phrases in the Italian writers of that age. 

t Surrey introduced the sonnet, and the use of blank rem 
Into our literature. It is a curious fact, that the earliest blank 
tvroo -•'■.«» was written by Saint Irancis. 
10 



146 THE FAIR GERALDINE. 

which give a charm and an interest to his memory 
far beyond that of a mere historical character. As 
for the fair-haired, blue-eyed Geraldine, the mis- 
tress of his fancy and affections, and the subject 
of his verse, her identity long lay entombed, as it 
were, in a poetical name ; but Surrey had loved 
her, had maintained her beauty at the point of hii 
lance — had made her " famous by his pen, and glo- 
rious by his sword." This was more than enough 
+o excite the interest and the enquiries of posterity, 
and lo ! antiquaries and commentators fell to work, 
archives were searched, genealogies were traced, 
and at length the substance of this beautiful poet- 
ical shadow was detected : she was proved to have 
been the Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald, afterwards 
the wife of a certain Earl of Lincoln, of whom 
little is known — but that he married the woman 
Surrey had loved. 

Surrey has ingeniously contrived to compress, 
within the compass of a sonnet, some of the most 
interesting particulars of the personal and family 
history of his mistress. The Fitzgeralds derive 
their origin from the Geraldi of Tuscany, — hence 

From Tuscan came my ladye's worthy race, 
Fair Florence was sometime their ancient seat. 

She was born and nurtured in L'eland— 

Fostered she was with milk of Irish breast. 

Her father was the Earl of Kildare, her mother 
allied to the blood royal. 






THE kaik r.r.UAUHM.. 147 

Bar wire nn Karl, lier dame of Prince's blood. 

She was brought up (through motives of compaa- 
rion, after the misfortunes of ber family) at Suns* 
don, with the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth, 
inhere Surrey, who frequently visited them in com- 
pany with the young Duke of Richmond,* first 
beh< Id her. 

Eunsdon did first present hor to mine eyes. 

She was then extremely young, not above fourteen 
or fifteen, as it appears from comparative dates 
and Surrey says very clearly, 

She wanted years to understand 

The grief that he did feel. 

But even then her budding charms made him con 
fess, as he beautifully expresses it — 

How soon a look can print a thought 
That never may remove ! 

It was during the festivals held at Hampton Court 
whither she accompanied the Princesses, that hei 
conquest was completed ; and Surrey being after- 
wards confined at Windsor,"! was deprived of hei 
society. 

Bright is her hue, and GeraMine she bight; 
Hampton me taught to wish her first foi mine, 
Windsor, alas! doth chase me from her sight. 

* Natu ral brother of the princesses ; ae was the son of 
Fin. by Lady Talbot. 
t He was imprisoned for eating n.eat in Lent 



l48 THE FAIR GERALDINE. 

Hampton Court was the scene of their frequent 
interviews. Surrey mentions a certain recessed or 
bow window, in which, retired apart from the gay 
throng around them, they held " converse «weet. M 
Here she gave him, as it seems, some encourage- 
ment ; too proud of such a distinguished suitor to 
let him escape. He in the same moment confessea 
himself a very slave, and betrays an indignant con- 
sciousness of the arts by which she keeps him en- 
tangled in her chain. 

In silence tho' I keep to such secrets myself, 

Yet do I see how she sometimes doth yield a look by 

stealth; 
As tho' it seemed, I wis, — " I will not lose thee so ! " 
When in her heart so sweet a thought did never truly 

grow. 

He accuses her expressly of a love of general 
admiration, and of giving her countenance and 
favor to unworthy rivals. In " The Warning to a 
Lover how he is abused by his Love," he thus ad- 
dressed himself as the deceived lover : — 

Where thou hast loved so long, with heart and all thy 

power, 
I see thee fed with feigned words, &c. 
[ see her pleasant cheer in chiefest of thy suit: 
When thou art gene, 1 see him come who gathers up tho 

fruit ; 
And eke in thy respect, I see the base degree 
Of him to whom she gives the heart, that promised wa» 

to thee!* 

* I^dy Frances Vere 






TllK i \n: QEB kLDO B. 1 4S 

Tin' lair Geraldine must have been a practised 
coquette to bave Bal for a picture so finished and 
10 strongly marked : yet before we blame her for 
this disdainful trifling, it should be remembered 
that Lord Surrey, at the time he was wooing her 
with "musicke vows," was either married or con* 
tracted to another,* — a circumstance quite in keep* 

Jul; with the fashionable system of Platonic gal- 
lantry introduced frond Italy — 

() Plato! Plato] you have been tlio cause, &c. 

T forbear to continue the apostrophe. 

According to the old tradition, repeated bj all 
Surrey's biographers, he visited on his travels the 
famous necromancer Cornelius Agrippa, who in a 
magic mirror revealed to him the fair figure of his 

Geraldine, lying dishevelled on a conch, and, by 
the light of a taper, reading one of his tenderest 
ion nets. 

Fair all the pageant, but how passing fair 

The Blender form that lay on couch of Ind! 
O'er her white bosom strayed her hazel hair, 

Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pined. 
All in her night-robe loose, she lay reclined, 

And peusive read from tablet eburnine, 
Some strain that seemed her inmost soul to find,— 

That favored strain was Surrey's raptured line, 
That fair and lovely form, the Lady Geraldine !f 

• Surrey's Wor'ss : Nott's Edit. 4tc 

♦ Lay of the Last Minstrel 



150 THE FAIR GERALDINE. 

This beautiful incident is too celebrated, too touei-< 
tag, not to be one of the articles of our poetical 
faith. It was believed by Surrey's contemporaries, 
and in the age immediately following was gravely 
related by a grave historian. It shows at least the 
celebrity which his poetry, unequalled at that time, 
had given to his love, and the object of it. In fact 
when divested of the antique spelling, which, at 
the first glance, revolts by the impression it gives 
of difficulty and obscurity, some of the lyrics of 
Surrey have not since been surpassed either in 
elegance of sentiment, or flowing grace of ex 
pression : — for example — 

A Praise of his Love, wherein he reproveth them thai compart 
their Ladies with his. 

Give place ye lovers here before, 

That spent your bostes and braggs in vain, 

My ladye's beauty passeth more 

The best of yours, I dare well sayne, 

Then doth the sun the candle light, 

Or brightest day the darkest night. 

And thereto hath a truth as just, 
As had Penelope the fair: 
For what she sayeth you may trust, 
As it by writing sealed were ; 
And virtues hath she many moe, 
Than I with pen have skill to show. 

The following sonnet is rather a specimen of 
versification than of sentiment : the subject is 
sorrowed from Petrarch. 






TI1K l'Aiu (;i:kai.i>ink. Jfti 

A OOMI I.AIM I.V Mi;MT, OF A LOVER NOT IlKLOV «D. 

Alas! so nil thing! now do hold their peace, 

Heaven and earth disturbed In no thing; 
The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease, 

And the night's ear the stars ahout doth hring: 
Calm is the sea, the waves work less and le98: 

So am not I, whom love, alas! doth wring 
Bringing before nay face the great increase 

Of my desires, whereas I weep and sing, 
In joy and woe, as in a doubtful case. 

For my sweet thoughts, some time do pleasure bring; 
But by and bye, the cause of my disease, 

Give«* me a pang that inwardly doth sting, 
When that 1 think, what grief it is again 

To live, and lack the thing should rid my pain. 

Geraldine was so beautiful as to authorize the 
raptures of her poetical lover. Even in her later 
years, when, as Countess of Lincoln, she attended 
on Queen Elizabeth, she retained so much of her 
excelling loveliness, that the adoration paid to her 
in youth, was not wondered at ; and her celebrity 
as Surrey's early love, is alluded to by contemporary 
writers.* There can be no doubt that she was an 
accomplished woman : the learned education the 
Princesses received at Hunsdon, (in the advantages 
of which she participated,) is well knowr Her 
father, Lord Kildare, was a man of vigorous intel- 
lect and uncommon attainments for the age in 
^hich he lived. He was the eighth Earl of his 
qoble family, and being engaged in the disturbances 
»f Ireland, then a scene of eternal dissension and 
* Queen Elizabeth a Progresses, toI. L 



152 THE FAIR GERALDINE. 

bloodshed between the native princes and the lord? 
of the English pale, he fell under the displeasure 
of Henry the Eighth : his eldest son, and his five 
brothers, who had been seized as hostages, were 
executed on the same day at Tyburn, and the 
" stout old Earl," as he is called in history, died 
broken-hearted in the Tower. The mother of 
Geraldine is rendered interesting to us by a little 
family trait, related by one of our old Chroniclers.* 
Lord Kildare, he tells us, " was so well affected to 
his wife, as he would not at anie time buy a suite 
of apparel for himself, but he would suite her with 
the same stuffe ; the which gentlenesse she recom- 
pensed with equal kindnesse ; for after that he, the 
said Earle, deceased in the Tower, she did not 
onley live a chaste and honorable widow, but also 
nightly, before she went to bed, she would resort 
to his picture, and there, with a solemn conge, she 
would bid her Lorde good nighte." 

This Countess of Kildare was Lady Elizabeth 
Grey, grand-daughter of that famous Lady Eliza- 
beth Grey, whose virtue made her the queen of 
Edward the Fourth. Thus the fair Geraldine was 
cousin to the young princes who were smothered 
in the Tower, and may truly be said to have been 
of " Prince's blood." 

It must be admitted that the general tone of 
Surrey's poems does not give us a favorable idea 
sf the fair Geraldine's manners and character 
She was variable, coquettish, and fond of admin* 

* Hollinshed. 



TiiK kaik <;i:kai.ih\i:. 

kicn ; — on this point I have offered some apology 

for he r. She is accused also of marrying twice, 

from mercenary motives, and thus forfeiting the 
Attachment of her noble and poetical lover. - This 

is unfair, I think ; there is no proof I liat Geraldine 
married solely from mercenary motives. Surrey 
was himself married, and both the men to whom 
Bhe was successively united,f were eminent in 
their day for high personal qualities, though in com- 
parison with Surrey, they have been reduced to hide 
their diminished heads in peerages and genealogies. 

The Earl of Surrey was beheaded in 1547. 
The fair Geraldine was living forty years after- 
wards: she survived for a short time her secoud 
husband, Lord Lincoln ; and with him lies buried 
under a sumptuous tomb at Windsor: 6he left nc 
descendants. Her youngest brother, Edward Fitz- 
gerald, was the lineal ancestor of the present 
Duke of Leinster. 

The only original portrait of the fair Geraldine, 
now extant, is in the gallery of the Duke of 
Bedford, at Woburn ; and I am told that it is 
sufficiently beautiful to justify Surrey's admira- 
tion.:}: 

• See Nott's edition of Surrey's Works. 

t She was the second wife of Sir Anthony Browne, and the 
third wife of the Earl of Lincoln ancestor to the Duke of New- 
castle. 

t Those who are curious about historic proofs, may consult 
Anecdotes of the family of Howard, Memoir? and Works of 
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, edited by Dr. Nott, Park's RoyaJ 
tod Noble Authors, and Coilius's Peerage, b~ Brydgee. 



154 GLNEVRA. 

CHAPTER Xm. 

GINEVRA, AND ALESSANDRA 8TROZZI. 

While the sagacity of Horace Walpole wai 
tracking the identity of the fair Geraldine through 
the mazes of poetry and probability, — through 
parchments, through peerages, through papers, and 
through patents, he must now and then have been 
annoyed by the provoking discretion of her chival- 
rous adorer, which had led him such a chase. But 
of all the discreet lovers that ever baffled commen- 
tators or biographers, commend me to Ariosto! 
though one of the last from whom discretion might 
have been expected on such a subject. He is 
known to have been particularly susceptible to the 
power of beauty ; passionate in his attachments ; 
and though pensive and abstracted in his general 
habits, almost irresistibly captivating in his inter- 
course with women. Yet such was his fine chival- 
rous feeling for the honor of those who, won by hia 
rare qualities, yielded it to his keeping — " such hia 
marvellous secrecy and modesty," say his Italian 
biographers, that although the public gaze was 
fixed unon him in his lifetime, and although, since 
his death, the minutest circumstances relative to 
him have been subjects of as much curiosity and 
research in Italy, as Shakspeare among us ; yet a 
iew scattered notices are all that can be brough' 
*njjother to illustrate his charming lyrics. 



<;im.\u.\ 155 

rhis mystery was not in Ar.OStO tin* effect of 
ehanco or affectation ; it arose from a principle of 

Conduct faithfully adhered to from youth to age ; 
in behalf of which, and the many beautiful passage! 

expressive of devotion and reverential tenderness 
towards our sex, scattered through his great poem, 
we will endeavour, (though at some little sacrifice 

of the pride and delicacy of women,) to pardon 
him, for having treated us most wickedly, on sun- 
dry other occasions. As an emblem of the reserve 
he had imposed on himself, a little bronze Cupid, 
with his finger on his lip, in token of silence, orna- 
mented his inkstand, which is still preserved at 
Ferrara. 

Of Ariosto's amatory poems, so full of spirit, 
grace, and a sort of earnest triumphant tenderness, 
it is impossible to doubt that the objects were real. 
The earliest of his serious attachments, was to a 
young girl of the Florentine family of the Lapi, 
but residing at Mantua, or in its vicinity. Her 
name was Ginevra, — a name he has tenderly com- 
memorated in the Orlando Furioso, by giving it to 
one of his most charming and interesting heroines, 
— Ginevra di Scozia. He has also, after Pe- 
trarch's fashion, played upon this name in one or 
two of his sonnets ; Ginevra signifying a juniper- 
tree : 

Non voglio (e Febo e Bacco mi perdoni) 
Che lor frondi mi mostrino poeta, 
Ma che un Ginevro sia che mi coroni! 

I wish not, (may Bacchus and Phot-bus pardon me') 



156 GINEVRA. 

Bitlier the laurel or the ivy to crown my brows ; let my 
wreath be rather of the thorny jumper ! " 

His love for Ginevra, (which was fondly re* 
turned,) began in very early youth ; their first in 
terview occurred at a Fesia di Ballo, — a fete-cham- 
petre, where Ginevra excelled all her young com" 
panions in the dance, as much as she surpassed 
them in her blooming beauty. He alludes to stolen 
interviews, in a grove of laurels, and on the banks 
of the Mincio : and on the whole, confesses that he 
had no reason to complain of cruelty from the fair 
Ginevra.* This attachment lasted long ; for, four 
years after their first meeting, Ariosto addresses 
her in a most impassioned strain, and vows that sho 
was then " dearer to him than his own soul, and 
fairer than ever in his eyes." She seems to have 
left that permanent impr^eion on his memory and 
fancy, that shade of tender regret with which a 
man of strong sensibility and ardent imagination 
always recurs to the first love of his youth, even 
when the passion itself is past. He says himself, 
when revisiting Mantua many years afterwards, 
Lhat the scene revived all his former tenderness — 

Quel foco ch' io pensai che fosse estinto* 
Dal tempo, dagli affanni, ed il star lunge 
Signor pur arde. 

I cannot discover what became of Ginevra ulti 

* Non ebbe unqua pastore 

Di me pia lieto, o pia felice amore ! 
fee the canzone to Ginevra, quoted by Baruffaldi. Vita, p. 148 



am— win: \ -i ROZZI. 157 

mately : Iht fate was a common one i she was loved 
by a celebrated man, was forsaken, and in exchange 

for happiness and far love, she lias enjoyed for some 
time a shadowy renown. Her name was usually 

connected with that of Arioeto, (ill the researches 
of late biographers discovered the object of that 
more celebrated, more serious, and more lasting 
passion which inspired Ariosto's finest Lyrics, which 
was subsequently sealed by a private marriage, 

Bnd ended only with the poet's lite. In this in- 
stance, the modesty of the lady and the discretion 
of Ariosto have proved in vain, for the name of 
Alessandra Strozzi is now so inseparably linked 
with that of her poet, that Beatrice is not more 
identified with Dante, nor Laura with Petrarch; 
though their name be more popular, and their 
fame more widely spread. 

Minor di grido, ma del vanto altera, 
(E cib le basta) che suo saggio amante 
Fu '1 grande che canto l'anni e gli amori — 
Vedi Alessandra ! * 

Alessandra Strozzi was the daughter of Filippo 
Benucci, and the widow of Tito Strozzi, a noble 
Florentine and famous Latin poet. At the period 
of her first acquaintance with Ariosto, she must 
Irave been about six-and-twenty, and a beautiful 
woman, on a very magnificent scale. Though I 
2annot find that she was distinguished for talents, 
or auy particular taste for literature, she seems to 

• Monti. Poesie varie, p 88. 



158 ALESSANDRA STROZZI. 

have possessed higher and more lovable qualities, 
which won Ariosto's admiration and secured his 
respect to the last. 

It was on his return from Rome in 1515, that 
Ariosto visited Florence, intending merely to wit- 
ness the grand festival which was then celebrated 
in honor of St. John the Baptist, and lasted sev- 
eral days. With what animation, what graphic 
power, he has described in one of his canzoni, the 
scene and occasion in which he first beheld his mis- 
tress ! The magnificence of Florence left, he says, 
few traces on his memory : he could only recollect 
that in all that fair city, he saw nothing so fair as 
herself. 

Sol mi resta immortale 
Memoria, ch' io non vidi in tutta quella 
Bella citta di voi, cosa piu bella. 

He had arrived just in time to be present at a 
fete, to which both were invited, and which Ales- 
sandra, notwithstanding her recent widowhood, 
condescended to adorn with her presence, " da 
preghi vinta " — conquered by the entreaties of her 
Spends. The whole scene is set forth like some of 
the living and moving pictures which glow before 
ns in the Orlando. 

Porte, finestra, vie, templi, teatri, 

Vidi pieni di Donne, 

A giochi, a pompe, sacrifici intenti. 

The portrait of Alessandra in her festal attire, 



am:ss.\\m:\ stko/./.i. 159 

and all her matronly loveliness, looks forth, as it 
Were, from this gorgeous frame, like one of Titian's 
breathing, full-blown beauties. Her dress is mi- 
nutely described : it was black, embroidered over 

with wreaths of Nine-leaves ami bunches of grapes, 

id purple and gold ; her fair luxuriant hair, gath- 
ered in a net behind and parted in front, fell down 
on either side of her face, in long curls which 
touched her shoulders. 

In rare] nodi, il biondo spesso crine 
In ran esottU rote, avea raooolto; 
Boats ombra di drieto 

Rendea al collo, dinanzi alle confine 

Delle guance divine; 
E disoendsa tin a r avorio bianco 

Del destro omero, e manco; 
Con qucste reti, insidiosi amori 

Preser quel giorno, piii de mille cori! 

" In golden braids, her fair 

And richly flowing hair 

Was gather' d in a subtle net behind, — 

(A subtle net and rare!) 

And cast sweet shadows there 

Over her neck, whilst parted ringlets, twined 

In beauty, from her forehead fell away, 

And hung adown her cheek where roses lay, 

Touching the ivory pale, (how pale and white ) 

Of both her rounded shoulders, left and right. 

crafty Loves! no more ye need your darts; 

For well ye know, how many thousand hearU 

'Willing captives on that day,* 

In those golden meshes lay!"* 

• Translated by a friend. 



160 ALESSANDRA STROZZI. 

On her brow, just where her hair is parted, she 
wears a sprig of laurel, wondrously wrought in 
gems of gold ; 

Quel gemmato 
Alio, tra la serena fronte e 1' calle assunto. 

After a rapturous, but general description of the 
lady's surpassing beauty, this animated and admir- 
able canzone concludes with the fine comparison 
of himself to the wild falcon, tamed at length to a 
master's hand and voice : — 

La libertade apprezza, 

Fin che perduta ancor non 1' ha il falcone; 

Preso che sia, depone 

Del gire errando si 1' antic a voglia, 

Che sempre che si scioglia, 

Al suo Signor a render con veloci 

Ali s' andra, dove udira le voci ! 

Ariosto, thus enamored, forgot the flight of time ; 
instead of remaining at Florence a few days, his 
stay was prolonged to six months ; and as he resided 
in the house of his friend Vespucci, who was the 
brother-in-law of Alessandra, he had daily oppor- 
tunities of seeing her, without in any way compro- 
mising her matronly dignity. On a certain occasion 
he finds her employed at her embroidery. She is 
working a robe, with wreaths of lilies and ama- 
ranths : these emblems of purity and love suggest, 
of course, the obvious compliments, but in a spirit 
that places the whole scene before us : Alessandra, 
gracefully bendmg at her embroidery frame, and 



Al.flSSANDRA BTBOZZL 161 

listening, with veiled lids, and suspended needle, to 
die bender homage of Ariosto, who repeats, as he 
hangs over her, — 

Non Bcnza causa il giglio e 1' amaranto, 
L' uno di fede, e 1' altro fior d' araore, &o. 

Even the pattern from which she is working, the 
■ilk, the gold, the lawn, made happy by her touch, 
arc sanctified, arc envied, — 

Awenturoso man ! beato ingegno 1 

Beata seta ! beatissimo oro ! 

Ben oato lino] inclito bel lavoro, 

Da eli i vuol la mia dca prender disegno, 

Per far :i vostro eeempioun vestir degno, 

Che copra avorio, e perle ed un teroso!* 

And he adds, " Ah, that she would rather take 
pattern after me, and imitate the constant love 1 
bear her ! " 

Alessandra must have excelled in needle-work, 
for we find frequent mention of her favorite occu- 
pation ; and it is even alluded to in the Orlando, 
where, describing the wound of Zerbino, Ariostc 
uses a comparison rather too fanciful for the occa- 
fion 

Cos\ talora un bel purpureo nastro 
Ho veduto patir tela d' argento, 
Da quel bianca man piu ch' alabastro 
Da cui partire il cor spesso mi sento. 

And so, I sometimes have been wont to view 
A hand more white than alabaster, part 

* Sounet 27 
11 



162 ALESSANDRA STKOZZI. 

The silver cloth, with ribbons red of hub, 
A hand I often feel divide my heart.* 

Among the personal charms of Alessandra, thfl 
most striking was the beauty and luxuriance of he* 
hair. In the days of Ariosto, fair hair, with a 
golden tinge, was so much admired that it became 
a fashion ; we are even informed that the Venetian 
women had invented a dye, or extract, by which 
they discharged the natural color of their tresses 
and gave them this admired hue. Almost all 
Titian's and Giorgione's beauties have fair hair ; 
the " richissima capellatura bionda " of Alessandra, 
was a principal charm in the eyes of her lover, but 
it was one she was destined to lose prematurely ; 
during a dangerous illness, some rash and luckless 
physician ordered all her beautiful tresses to be cut 
off. The remedy, it seems, was equally unneces- 
sary and unfortunate ; but here was a fine theme 
for an indignant lover! and Ariosto has, accord- 
ingly, lavished on it some of his most graceful and 
poetical ideas. Of the three elegant sonnets f in 
which he has commemorated the incident, it is 
difficult to decide which is the finest — the last, per- 
haps, is the most spirited : the poet bursts at once 
into his subject, as in a transport of grief and 
rage. 

" When I think, as I do, a thousand, thousand 
times a-day, upon those golden tresses, which 
neither wisdom nor necessity, but hasty folly, torn 

* Stewart Bose's translation. t The 26th, 27th, and 28th, 



ALES8 \\l>UA BTBOZZL 1GS 

|Ias! from that fair head, Tain enraged, — my cheek 
Durna with anger, — even (cars gush forth, bathing 
in y face and bosom; — I could die to ho revenged 
dii the impious stupidity of that rash hand ! O 
Love, if such wrong goes unpunished, thine be the 
reproach! Remember how Bacchus avenged on 
the Thracian King,* his clusters torn from his 
sacred vines : wilt thou, who art greater far than 
he, do less ? Wilt thou sinTer the loveliest and 
dearest of thy possessions to be audaciously rav- 
ished, and yet bear it in silence? "f 

This is powerful enough to be in downright 
earnest: and unsoftened by the flowing harmony 
of the verse and rhyme, appears even harsh, both 
in sentiment and expression: but the poetry ;n id 
spirit being inherent, have not, I trust, quite 
escaped in the transfusion. When Ariosto, after a 
long absence, revisits the scene in which he first 
beheld the lady of his thoughts, he addresses those 
" marble halls, and lofty and stately roofs, 

" Marmoree logge, alti e superbi tetti," 

in a strain which leaves the issue of his suit some- 
thing less than doubtful : — 

u Well do ye remember ye scenes, when I left 
ye a captive sick at heart, and pierced with Love'a 
iweet pain : but ye know not perhaps how sweetly 
I died, and was restored again to life : how my 
gentlest Lady, seeing that my soul had forsaken 

* Lycurgus, King of Thrac* t Ixiceto, Rim*. 



»64 ALESSANDRA STROZZI. 

me, sent me hers in return to dwell with me 
forever ! " 

" Ben vi sowien, che di qui andai captivo, 
Trafitto il cor ! ma non sapete forse 
Com' io morissi, e poi tornassi in vita. 

E che madonna, tosto che s' accorse 

Esser 1' anima in lei da me fuggita, 

La sua mi diede, e ch' or con questa vivo !" 

The exact date of Ariosto's marriage cannot be 
ascertained, but the marriage itself is proved 
beyond a doubt :* it must have taken place about 
1522. The reasons which induced Ariosto to in- 
volve in doubt and mystery his union with this 
admirable woman, can only be conjectured,f their 
intercourse was so carefully concealed, and the 
discretion and modesty of Alessandra so remark- 
able, that no suspicion of the ties which bound 
them to each other, existed during the life of tho 
poet; nor did the slightest imputation ever sully 
the fair fame of her he loved. 

It were endless to point out the various beautiea 
of Ariosto's lyrics, — beauties, which as they spring 
from feeling are felt. We have few sonnets in a 
dolorous strain, few complaints of cruelty ; and 
even these seem inspired, not by the habitual cold- 



* The proofs may be consulted in Baruffaldi, " Vita di M 
tudovico Ariosto," published in 1807; and also in Frizzi, "Me 
Bt»rie della Famiglia Ariosto." 

t Barutfaldi gives some family reasons, but they are far from 
Seing satisfactory. — Vita, in p. 159. 



ALE8SANDRA Wl BOIU. 165 

nesa of Alessandr.i, lmt bjSOHIfi oecaaODal repulsei 

which ho oonfeopoa to have deserved. 

Per poco consiglio, e troppo ardiro. 

But we have in their place, all the glow of sensi- 
bility, the sparkling of hope, the grateful rapture of 
returned affection, and that power of imagery, by 

which, with one vivid stroke, lie turns his emotions 
into pictures : these predominate throughout. As 
an instance of the latter, there is the apostrophe to 
Hope, M now bounding and leaping along, now 
creeping with coward steps and slow : " 

sperauza! die ancor dietro si mena 
Quando a gran salti, c quando a passi lentil 

In one of his madrigals, he says, with an elegance 
which is perhaps a little quaint, M my wishes soar so 
high, that my hopes shrink back, and dare not 
follow them." In the same spirit, when he is blest 
with the presence of his love, grief is not only ban- 
ished, but, " flies with the rapidity of a falcon before 
the wind," 

Vola, com' un falcone che ha seeo il vento ! 

Merely to compare his mistress to a rose, would 
have been commonplace. She is a rose " unfold 
ing her paradise of leaves " — a charming expres- 
sion, which has been adopted I think, by one of 
our living poets. Singled with the most rapturoiu 
praise of Alessandra's triumphant beauty, we have 
constantly the most delightful impression of her 



166 ALESSANDRA STROZZI. 

tenderness, her frank and courteous bearing, and 
the gladness which her presence diffuses through 
his heart, which, after the sentimental lamentations 
of former poets, are really a relief. 

I can understand the self-congratulation, the 
eecret enjoyment with which Ariosto dwelt on the 
praises of Alessandra, celebrated her charms, and 
exulted in her love, while her name remained an 
impenetrable secret, 

Nor pass'd his lips in holy silence seal'd! 

But when once he had introduced her into the 
Orlando, he must have had a very modest idea of 
his own future renown, not to have anticipated the 
consequences. A famous passage in the 4 2d canto, 
is now universally admitted to be a description of 
Alessandra.* She is very strikingly introduced, 
and yet with the usual characteristic mystery ; so 
that while nothing is omitted that can excite inter- 
est and curiosity, every means are taken to baffle 
and disappoint both. Binaldo, while travelling in 
Italy, arrives at a splendid palace on the banks of 
the Po. It is minutely described, with all the 
prodigal magnificence of the Arabian Nights, and 
all the taste of an architect ; and among other 
riches, is adorned with the statues of the most cele- 
brated women of that age, all of whom are named 
at length ; but among them stands the effigy of one 
so preeminent in majesty, and beauty, and intellect, 

* RusceUi Fabroni, Baruffaldi, and the late poet Monti, are a5 
agreed on this subject. 



Ai.rc.ssANDRA 8TB0ZZI. 163 

that though she is partly veiled, and habited in 
modest black, (alluding to her recenl widowhood,) 
though she wears neither jewels nor chains of gold, 
she eclipses all the beauties around her, as the 
evening star outshines all others. 

Che sotto puro vclo, in ncra gonna 
Senza oro e gemme, In un vestire schietto, 
Fra le piii adorno non parea men bella 
Che sia fcra l'altre la oiprigna stella! * 

At her side stands the image of one, who in humble 
strains had dared to celebrate her virtues and her 
beauty, (meaning himself.) " But," adds the poet 
modestly, " I know not why he alone should be 
placed there, nor what he had done to be so hon- 
ored ; of all the rest, the names were sculptured 
beneath ; but of these two, the names remained 
unknown " — No, not so ! for those whom Love and 
Fame have joined together, who shall henceforth 
sunder ? 

The Orlando Furioso was completed and pub- 
lished shortly after Ariosto's visit to Florence ; and 
this passage must have been written apparently not 
ouly before his marriage with Alessandra, Out 
before he was even secure of her affection ; per- 
haps he read it aloud to her, and while his stolen 
looks and faltering voice betrayed the true object 
of this most beautiful and refined homage, she must 
have felt the delicacy which had suppressed her 
uanie. In such a moment, how little could sh« 
• Orlando Furioso, c. 42, at. 93. 



168 ALESSANDRA 8TR0ZZI. 

have heeded or thought of the voice of future fame, 
while the accents of her lover thrilled through her 
heart! 

Alessandra removed from Florence to Ferrara, 
about 1519, and inhabited the Casa Strozzi, in the 
street of Santa Maria in Vado. The residence of 
Ariosto was in the Yia Mirasole, at some distance. 
Boch houses are still standing. She died in 1552, 
having survived the poet about nineteen years ; 
and she was buried in the church of San Rocco at 
Ferrara. 

She bore no children to Ariosto ; and her son, 
by her first marriage, (Count Guido Strozzi,) died 
before her. 

***** 

Ariosto left two sons, whom he tenderly loved 
and had educated with extreme care. The eldest, 
Virginio, was the son of a beautiful Contadinella, 
whose name was Orsolina ; the mother of the 
youngest, Giovanbattista, was also a girl of inferior 
rank ; her name was Maria. Neither are once 
mentioned or alluded to by Ariosto ; but the mis- 
chievous industry of the poef s commentators ha* 
immortalized their names and their frailtv. 






•PENSBB'8 ROSALIND. JGS 



CHAPTER XIV. 



B*KNSER'S ROSALIND AND SPKNSEIi'S KI.UA- 
BETH. 

Pass we from the Ariosto of Italy, to Spenser, 
mr English Ariosto; the translation is natural: — 
they resemble each other certainly, but with a dif- 
ference, and this difference reigns especially in 
their minor poems. 

The tender heart and luxuriant fancy of Spen- 
ser have thrown round his attachments all the 
strong interest of reality, and all the charm of 
romance and poetry ; and since we know that the 
first development of his genius was owing to female 
influence, his Rosalind ought to have been deified 
for what her beauty achieved, had she possessed 
sufficient soul to appreciate the lustre of her coa- 
quest. 

Immediately on leaving college, Spenser retired 
to the north of England, where he first became 
enamored of the fair being to whom, according to 
the fashion of the day, he gave the fanciful appel- 
lation of Rosalind. We are told that the letters 
which form this word being " well ordered," (that 
is, transposed,) comprehend her real name ; but it 
has hitherto escaped the penetration of his biogra- 
phers. Two of his friends were entrusted w:'tb 
<he secret, and they, with a discisrion more to De 



170 SPENSEK*S ROSALIND. 

regretted than blamed, have kept it. One of these, 
who speaks from personal knowledge, tells us, in a 
note on the Eclogues, that she was the daughter of 
a widow; that she was a gentlewoman, and one 
" that for her rare and singular gifts of person and 
wind, Spenser need not have been ashamed to 
love." We can believe this of a poet, whose deli- 
cate perception of female worth breathes in almost 
every page of his works ; but after having, as he 
hoped, made some progress in her heart, a rival 
stept in, whom Spenser accuses expressly of having 
supplanted him by treacherous arts ; and on this 
obscure and nameless wight, Rosalind bestowed 
the hand which had been coveted, — the charms 
which had been sung by Spenser ! He suffered 
long and deeply, wounded both in his pride and in 
his love : but her beauty and virtue had made a 
stronger impression than her cruelty; and her 
lover, with a generous tenderness, not only paiv 
doned, but found excuses for her disdain. 

" I have often heard 
Fair Eosalind of divers foully blam'd, 

For being to that swain too cruel hard ; 
But who can tell what cause had that fair maid 

To use him so, that loved her so well? 
Or who with blame can justly her upbraid, 

For loving not; for who can love compel? 
And (sooth to say) it is full handy thing 

Rashly to censure creatures so divine; 
For demi-gods they be ; and first did spring 

From heaven, though graft in frailness fsminine."* 

* Colin Clout, 



BPHNbBfi'fi BOSALIHIK 171 

riie exquisite Bentunent of these lines is worthy of 
him w!.o rang of Ck Heavenly Una and her milk- 
white lamb." 

To the memory of Rosalind, — to the long-felt 
influence of this first passion, and to the nu-lnncholj 
shade which his early disappointment cast over a 
mind naturally cheerful, we owe some of the most 
tender and beautiful passages scattered through his 
later poems : — for instance — the bitter sense of rec- 
ollected Buffering, seems to have suggested that fine 
description of a lover's life, which may almost rank 
us a pendant to the miseries of the courtier, so well 
known and often quoted. 

Full little know'st thou that hast not tried, &c. 

It occurs in the " Hymn to Love." 

The gnawing envy, the heart-fretting fear, 
The vain Burmises, the distrustful shows, 
The false reports that flying tales do bear, 
The doubts, the dangers, the delays, the woea, 
The feigned friends, the unassured foes, 
With thousands more than any tongue can tel— 
Do make a lover's life, a wretch's hell ! 

And again in the Fairy Queen : — 

What equal torment to the grief of mind, 
And pining anguisn hid in gentle heart, 
That ml'- feeds itself with thoughts unkind, 
And nourisheth its own consuming smart; 
Anl will to uoue its malady impart! 



i/2 spenser's rosalind. 

The effects produced in a noble and gentle spirit^ 
by virtuous love for an exalted object, are not less 
elegantly described in another stanza, of the Hymn 
to Love ; and must have been read with rapture in 
that chivalrous age. The last line is particularly 
beautiful. 

Then forth he casts in his unquiet thought, 
What he may do her favour to obtain; 
What brave exploit, what peril hardly wrought, 
What puissant conquest, what adventurous pain, 
May please her best, and grace unto him gain; 
He dreads no danger, nor misfortune fears, — 
His faith, his fortune, in his breast he bears ! 

And in what a fine spirit of poetry, as well as feel- 
ing, is that description of the power of true beauty, 
which forms part of his second Hymn ! It is in- 
deed imitated from the refined Platonics of the 
Italian school, which then prevailed in the court, 
the camp, the grove, and is a little diffuse in 
Btyle, a little redundant ; but how rich in poetry 
and in the most luxuriant and graceful imagery 1 

How vainly then do idle wits invent, 

That beauty is nought else but mixture made 

Of colours fair, and goodly temperament 

Of pure complexions, that shall quickly fade 

And pass away like to a summer's shade; 

Or that it is but comely composition 

Of parts well measured, with meet disposition i 

Hath white and red in it such wondrous power, 
That it can pierce through th' eves into the heart, 



Sim NSBR'fl R08ALIHD. 171 

And therein stir such rage and rettlBM stowre, 

As nougiit but death can stint his dolor's smart? 
Or can proportion of the Outward ]>:»rt 

Move such affection in the Inward mind, 
That it can rob both sense, and reason blind? 

Why do not then the blossoms of the field, 
Which are array'd with much more orient hue, 
And to the sense most dainty odors yield, 
Work like impressions in the looker's view? 
Or why do not fair pictures like power show, 
In which oft-times we Nature see of Art 
Excell'd, in perfect limning every part? 

But ah ! believe me, there is more than so, 
That works such wonders in the minds of men, 
I, that have often prov'd, too well it know. 
And who BO list the like e>-aies to ken, 
Shall find by trial, and confess it then, 
That beauty is not, as fond men misdeem, 
An outward show of things that only seem. 

For that some goodly hue of white and red, 
With which the cheeks are sprinkled, shall decay 
And those sweet rosy leaves, so fairly spread 
Upon the lips, shall fade and fall away, 
To that they were, even to corrupted clay : — 
That golden wire, those sparkling stars so bright 
Shall turn to dust, and lose their goodly light- 
But that fair lamp, from whose celestial ray 
That light proceeds, which kindleth lover's fire, 
Shall never be extinguished nor decay; 
But, when the vital spirits do expire, 
Unto her native planet shall retire ; 
For it is heavenly born and cannot die 
Being a parcel of the purest sky' 



174 ROSALIND AND ELIZABETH. 

At a late period of Spenser's life, the remem* 
brance of this cruel piece of excellence, — hia 
Rosalind, was effaced by a second and happier love. 
His sonnets are addressed to a beautiful Irish girl, 
the daughter of a rich merchant of Cork. She it 
was who healed the wound inflicted by disdain and 
levity, and taught him the truth he has expressed 
in one charming line — 

Sweet is that love alone, that comes with willingness! 

Her name was Elizabeth, and her family (as Spen- 
ser tells us himself) obscure ; but, in spite of her 
plebeian origin, the lady seems to have been a very 
peremptory and Juno-like beauty. Spenser con- 
tinually dwells upon her pride of sex, and has 
placed it before us in many charming turns of 
thought, now deprecating it as a fault, but oftenei 
celebrating it as a virtue. For instance — 

Eudely thou wrongest my dear heart's desiia, 
In finding fault with her too portly pride : 
The thing which I do most in her admire, 
Is of the world unworthy most envied ; 
For in those lofty looks is close implied, 
Scorn of hase things, disdain of foul dishonor; 
Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide, 
That loosely they ne dare to look upon her. 
Such pride is praise ; such portliness is honour.* 

And again, in the thirteenth sonnet, — 

* Sonnet 5. 



BOSAIJXD ANT ELIZABETH. 1 « r l 

In th:it proud port, which her so goodly graceth, 

Whiles her fair face she rears up to Che sky, 
And to the ground, her eyelids low embaseth, 
Most goodly temperature ye may descry; 

Mild hiunblessc, mixt with awful majesty] 

This picture of the deportment erect with con- 
icious dignity, and the eyelids veiled with feminine 
modesty, is very beautiful. We have the figure 
of his Elizabeth before us in a11 her maidenly dig- 
nity and proud humility. The next is a softened 
repetition of the same characteristic portrait: 

Was it the work of Nature or of Art, 
Which temper'd so the features of her face, 
That pride and meekness, mixt by equal part, 
Do both appear to adorn her beauty's grace? * 

He rebukes her with a charming mixture of re- 
proof and flattery, in the lines — 

Fair Proud ! now tell me, why should fair be proud ? &c. 

This imperious and high-souled beauty at length 
gives some sign of relenting ; and pursuing the 
train of thought and feeling through the latter part 
of the collection, we can trace the vicissitudes of 
the lady's temper, and how the lover sped in his 
woc^cr. First, she grants a smile, and it is hailed 
•rith rapture- 
Sweet smile! the daughter of the Queen of Lore, 
Expressing all thy mother's powerful art, 

• Sonnet 21. 



178 ROSALIND AXD ELIZABETH. 

With which she wont to temper angry Jove, 
When all the gods he threats with thundering daft: 
Sweet is thy virtue, as thyself sweet art ! 
For, when on me thou shiuedst late in sadness, 
A melting pleasance ran through every part, 
And me revived with heart-robbing gladness ! * 

The effect of a first relenting and affectionate 
guile from a being of this character, must, in truth, 
have been irresistible. He tells us how lovely she 
appeared in his eyes, — how surpassing fair : 

When that the cloud of pride which oft doth dark 
Her goodly light, with smiles she drives away ! 

He finds her one day embroidering in silk a bee 
and a spider, 

Woven all about, 
With woodbynd flowers and fragrant eglantine, 

and he playfully compares himself to a spider, and 
her to the bee, whom, after long and weary watch- 
ing, he was at length caught in his snare. This 
pretfy incident is the subject of the 71st Sonnet. 
The rapture of grateful affection is more eloquent 
in tLe Sonnet beginning 

Joy of my life ! full oft for loving you 

I bless my lot, that was so lucky placed, &c. 

When he is allowed to hope, the pride which had 
before checked and chilled him, seems to change 

* Sonnet 39. 



BOBALDTD a\t» W [ZABBTB 177 

its character. He feels all the exultation of being 

beloved of one, not eaaQj gained, and "assured 

unto herself-" 

Thrice happy she that is so well assured 
Unto herself, and settled so in heart, &c* 

After a courtship of about three years, he euos 
for the possession of the fair hand to which he had 
•o long aspired ; promising her (and not vainly,) 
all the immortality his verse could bestow, — 

Even this verse, vowed to eternity, 
Shall he of her immortal monument, 
And tell her praise to eternity! 

The fair Elizabeth at length confesses hersell 
won ; but expresses some fears at the idea of re- 
linquishing her maiden freedom. His reply is, 
perhaps, the most beautiful of all the Sonnets. It 
has all the tenderness, elegance, and fancy, which 
distinguish Spenser in his happiest moments of 
inspiration. 

The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love, is vain, 

That fondly fear to lose your liberty: 
When, losing one, two liberties ye gain, 

And make him bound that bondage erst did fly. 
Sweet be the bands, the which true love doth tye 

Without constraint, or dread of any ill: 
The gentle bird feels no captivity 

Withiu her cage; but sings, and feeds her fill: 



» Sonnet o&. 
12 



178 JROSALIND AND ELIZABETH. 

Thero pride dare not approach, nor discord spill 
The league 'twixt them, that loyal love hath bound 

But simple Truth, and mutual Good -will, 

Seeks, with sweet peace, to salve each othei 's wound; 

There Faith doth fearless dwell in brazen tower, 

And spotless Pleasure builds her sacred Dower.* 

The Amoretti, as Spenser has fancifully entitled 
his Sonnets, are certainly tinctured with a good 
deal of the verbiage and pedantry of the times; 
but I think I have shown that they contain passages 
of earnest feeling, as well as high poetic beauty 
Spenser married his Elizabeth, about the year 
1593, and he has crowned his amatory effusion 
with a most impassioned and triumphant epitha* 
lamion on his own nuptials, which he concludes 
with a prophecy, that it shall stand a perpetual 
monument of his happiness, and thus it has been. 
The passage in which he describes his youthful 
bride, is perhaps one of the most beautiful and 
vivid pictures in the whole compass of English 
poetry. 

Behold, while she before the altar stands, 
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks, 
And blesses her with his two happy hands, 
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks, 
Aad the pure snow, with goodly ver^aeil stain, 
Like crimson died in grain ! 
That even the angels, which continually 
About the sacred altar do remain, 
Forget their service, and about her fly, 

* Sonnet 65. 



K08AI-i.no and BLIZAB1 hi. 179 

Oft peeping in her fare, which nCWUM more fair, 

The more they 00 it Btare. 

Bui her Bad eyes, -ti!! fastened on the ground, 

Are governed with a lt- »'>■!!%- mode 

That Buffers not a look to glance away, 

Which may let in a little thought unsound. 
Why blush ye, love! t0 glte tO DM your hand 
The pledgo of all our hand ! 
Sing I ye sweet angels 1 Hallelujah sing! 

That all the woods may answer, and their echoei ring. 

And the rapturous apostrophe to the evening star 
is in a fine strain of poetry. 

Late, though it he, at last I see it gloom, 

And the bright evening star, with golden crest, 

Appear out of the west! 

Fair child of beauty! glorious lamp of love! 

That all the host of heaven in ranks dost lead, 

And guidest lovers through the night's sad dread, 

How cheerfully thou lookest from ahove, 

And seem'st to laugh atween thy twinkling light! 

As Ariosto has contrived to introduce his per- 
sonal feelings, and the memory of his love, into the 
Orlando Furioso, so Spenser has enshrined his in 
the Fairy Queen ; but he has not, I think, suc- 
ceeded so well in the manner of celebrating the 
woman he delighted to honor. Ariosto has the 
advantage over the English poet, in delicacy and 
oropriety of feeling as well as power. Spenser's 
picture of the swelling eminence, the lawn, the 
flustering trees, the cascade — 

Whose silver waves did softly tumble down, 



180 ROSALIND AND ELIZABETH. 

haunted by nymphs and fairies ; the bevy oil 
beauties who dance in a circle round the lady of 
his love, while he himself, in his character of Colin 
Clout, sits aloof piping on his oaten reed, remind 
us of one of Claude's landscapes ; and the differ- 
ence between the pastoral luxuriance of this diffuse 
description, and the stately magnificence of Ari- 
osto's, is very characteristic of the two poets. 
Were I to choose, however, I would rather have 
been the object of Ariosto's compliment than of 
Spenser's. The passage in the Fairy Queen occurs 
in the 10th canto of Legend of Sir Calidore ; and 
all his commentators are agreed that the allusion is 
to his Elizabeth, and not to Rosalind. 

Both are mentioned in " Colin Clout's come 
home again." Rosalind, and her disdainful rejec- 
tion of the poet's love, are alluded to near the end, 
in some lines already quoted ; but a very beautiful 
passage, near the commencement of the poem, 
clearly alludes to Elizabeth, under whose thrall he 
vras at the time it was written. 

Ah! far be it, (quoth Colin Clout,) fro me, 
That I, of gentle maids, should ill deserve, 
For that myself I do profess to be 
Vassal to one, whom all my days I serve ; 
The beam of Beauty, sparkled from above, 
The flower of virtue and pure chastitie ; 
The blossom of sweet joy and perfect love; 
The pearl of peerless grace and modesty ! 
To her, my thoughts I daily dedicate ; 
To her, my heart I nightly martyrise ; 
To her, my love I lowly do prostrate ; 



flPKNSEB'8 ELIZABETH. 181 

To her, my life, I wholly saorifioe; 

My thought, my heart, my life, my love, is she! &o. 

Spenser married liis Elizabeth about the yea* 
1598. Ilr resided at tins time al the Castle of 
Kilcolman, in the south of Ireland, a portion of the 
forfeited domains of the Earl of Desmond having 
been assigned to him: but the adherents of that 
unhappy chief saw in Spenser only an invader of 
their rights, — a st ranger living on their inheritance, 
■while they were east out to starvation or banish- 
ment, lie and his family dwelt in continual fears 
and disturbance from the distracted state of the 
country; and at length, about two years after his 
marriage, he was attacked in his castle by the 
native Irish. He and his wife escaped with dif- 
ficulty, and one of their children perished in the 
flames. After this catastrophe they came to Eng- 
land, and Spenser died in 1598, about five years 
after his marriage with Elizabeth. The short 
period of their union, though disturbed by mis- 
fortunes, losses, and worldly cares, was never 
clouded by domestic disquiet. This haughty beauty, 

Whose lofty countenance seemed to scorn 

Base thing, and think how she to heaven might climb, 

became the tenderest and most faithful of wives. 
How long she survived her husband is not known ; 
but though scarce past the bloom of youth at the 
period of her loss, we have no account of her 
toarrying again. 



182 SHAKSPEARE. 



CHAPTER XV. 

ON THE I.OVE OF SHAKSPEARE. 

Shakspeare — I approach the subject with 
reverence, and even with fear, — ;s the only poet ] 
am acquainted with and able to appreciate, who 
appears to have been really heaven-inspired : the 
workings of his wondrous and all-embracing mind 
were directed by a higher influence than ever was 
exercised by woman, even in the plenitude of her 
power and her charms. Shakspeare's genius waited 
not on Love and Beauty, but Love and Beauty 
ministered to him ; he perceived like a spirit ; he 
was created, to create ; his own individuality is 
lost in the splendor, the reality, and the variety of 
his own conceptions. When I think what those 
are, I feel how needless, how vain it were to swell 
the universal voice with one so weak as mine. 
Who would care for it that knows and feels Shak- 
speare ? Who would listen to it that does not, if 
there be such ? 

It is not Shakspeare as a great power bearing a 
great name, — but Shakspeare in his less divine and 
less known character, — as a lover and a man, who 
finds a place here. The only writings he has left 
through which we can trace any thing of his per* 
eonal feelings and affections, are his Sonneta. 
Every one who reads them, who has tenderness o? 



SB LEBPI LBB. 183 

taste, will echo Wordsworth's denunciation against 
the "flippant insensibility " of some of his com- 
mentators, who talked of an Act of Parliament 
not being strong enough to compel their perusal 

and will agree in his opinion, that they arc full of 
the most exquisite feelings, most felicitously ex- 
pressed ; but as to the object to whom they were 

addressed, a dill'ercnce of opinion prevails. From 
a reference, however, to all that is known of 
Shakspeare's life and fortunes, compared with the 
internal presumptive evidence contained in the 
Sonnets, it appears that some of them are ad- 
dressed to his amiable friend, Lord Southampton : 
and Others, I think, are addressed in Southampton's 

name, to that beautiful Elizabeth Vernon, to whom 
the Karl was so long and ardently attached * The 
Queen, who did not encourage matrimony among 
her courtiers, absolutely refused her consent to 
their union. She treated him as she did Raleigh 
in the affair of Elizabeth Throckmorton; and 
Southampton, after four years' impatient submission 
and still increasing love, as tenderly returned by 
his mistress, married without the Queen's knowl- 
edge, lost her favor forever, and nearly lost his 
head.f 

* She was the grandmother of Lady Ru«sell. 

t Elizabeth Vernon was first cousin to Essex. " Was it 
treason?" asked Essex indignantly, .d one of his eloquent 
letters; " Was it treason in my Lord of Southampton to marry 
lay poor kinswoman, that neither long imprisonment, nor any 
i unishment besides that hath beeu usual in such cams, M 
satisfy or appease f M 



184 SHAKSPEARE. 

That Lord Southampton is the subject of tb« 
first fifty-five Sonnets is sufficiently clear; and 
some of these are perfectly beautiful, — as the 30th, 
3 2d, 41st, 54th. There are others scattered 
through the rest of the volume, on the same sub- 
ject ; but there are many which admit of no such 
interpretation, and are without doubt inspired 
by the real object of a real passion, of whom 
nothing can be discovered, but that she was dark- 
eyed* and dark-haired,'* that she excelled in 
music,f and that she was one of a class of females 
who do not always, in losing all right to our respect, 
lose also their claim to the admiration of the sex 
who wronged them, or the compassion of the 
gentler part of their own, who have rejected them. 
This is so clear from various passages, that un- 
happily there can be no doubt of it-J He has 
flung over her, designedly it should seem, a veil 
of immortal texture and fadeless hues, " branched 
and embroidered like the painted Spring," but 
almost impenetrable even to our imagination. 
There are few allusions to her personal beauty, 
which can in any way individualize her, but bursta 
of deep and passionate feeling, and eloquent re- 
proach, and contending emotions, which show, that 
if she could awaken as much love and impart aa 
much happiness as woman ever inspired or be- 
«towed, he endured on her account all the pangi 
of agony, and shame, and jealousy; — that ouj 

* Sonnets 127, 130. t Sonnet 128. 

t See " Douce's Illustrations of Shakspeare." 



SIlAKSl'KAUE. 18fi 

Bhakspeare — he, who, in the omnipotence of 

genius, wielded the two worlds of reality and 
imagination [neither hand, who was in conception 

ami in act scarce less than a (ion, was in passion 
and Buffering not more than a Man. 

Instead of any elaborate description of her 
person, we have, in the only Sonnet which sets 
forth her charms, the rich materials for a picture, 
rather than the picture itself. 

The forward violet thus did I chide: 
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, 

If not from my Love's breath? The purple pride 
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, 

In my Love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd. 
The lily I condemned for thy hand, 

And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair: 
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, 

One blushing shame, another white despair; 
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both, 

And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; 
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth 

A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, 
But sweet, or color, it had stolen from thee. 

He intimates that he found a rival in one of hii 
own most intimate friends, who was also a poet.* 
He laments her absence in this exquisite strain ; — 

How like a winter hath my absence been 
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! 
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen. 
What old December's bareness everywhere I 

* Sonnets 80, 81 



180 SHAKSPEARE. 

***** 

For Summer and his pleasure wait on thee, 
And thou away, the very birds are mute ! 

He dwells with complacency on her supposed truth 
and tenderness, her bounty like Juliet's, " bound- 
less as the sea, her love as deep." 

Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, 
Still constant in a wondrous excellence, 

Then, as if conscious upon how unstable a founda- 
tion he had built his love, he expresses his fear lest 
he should be betrayed, yet remain unconscious of 
the wrong. 

For there can live no hatred in thine eye, 
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change ! 

In many's looks, the false heart's history 
Is writ in moods and frowns, and wrinkles strange. 

But heaven in thy creation did decree, 
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell. 

He bitterly reproaches her with her levity and 
falsehood, and himself that he can be thus un- 
worthily enslaved, — 

What potions have I drunk of Syren tears, &c. 
rhen, with lover-like inconsistency, excuses her,— 

As on the finger of a throned queen 
The basest jewel wiL be well esteemed ; 

So are those errors that in thee are seen 
To truths translated, and for true things deem' a. 



SHAXtnCARE. 187 

And (he following arc powerfully and painfully 
ixpressive : — 

How sweet and lovely dost thou make ttie shame, 
■\Ynich, like a canker in the fragrant rosv., 

Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! 
Oil, in what sweets dost thou thy sins etclosel 

xj, what a mansion have those vices got, 
Which for their habitation chose out thee, 

Where Beauty's veil doth cover every blot, 
And all things turn to fair that eyes can see! 

u Who taught thee," he says in another Sonnet, 

— to make me love thee more 
T he more I hear, and see just cause for hate ? 

He who wrote these and similar passages waa 
certainly under the full and irresistible influence of 
female fascination. But who it was that thus ruled 
the universal heart and mighty spirit of our Shak- 
spcare, we know not. She stands behind him a 
veiled and a nameless phantom. Neither dare we 
call in Fancy to penetrate that veil ; for who 
would presume to trace even the faintest outline 
of such a being as Shakspeare could have loved ? 
***** 

I think it doubtful to whom were addressed tnoM 
< xquisite lines, 

Then hate me when thou wilt, if evor, now! &c.* 

but probably to this very person. 

* Sonnet 172. 



88 SHAKSPEARE. 

The Sonnets in which he alludes to his profession 
Its an actor ; where he speaks of the brand, " which 
vulgar scandal stamped upon his brow," and of hav- 
ing made himself " a motley to men's view,"* are 
undoubtedly addressed to Lord Southampton. 

0, for my sake, do you with Fortune chide, 

The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, 
That did not better for my life provide, 

Than public means, which public manners breeds; 
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, 

And almost thence my nature is subdu'd 
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand. 

Pity me then, and wish I were renew' d. 

The last I shall remark, perhaps the finest of all, 
and breathing the very soul of profound tenderness 
and melancholy feeling, must, I think, have been 
addressed to a female. 

No longer mourn for me when I am dead 

Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell 
Give warning to the world that I am fled 

From this vile earth, with vilest worms to dwell: 
Nay, if you read this line, remember not 

The hand that writ it ; for I love you so, 
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, 

If thinking on me then should make you woe. 
if (I say) you look upon this verse, 

When I perhaps compounded am with clay 
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse : 

But let your love ev'n with my life decay: 
Lest the wise world should look into your moan, 
And mock you with me after I am gone. 

* Sonnets 110, 111. 



6HAKSFEARE. 183 

The period assigned to the composition of these 
Sonnets, and the attachment which inspired them, 
is the time when Shakspeare was living a wild and 

irregular life, between tlu> court and the theatre, 
after his flight from Stratford. He had previously 
married, at the age of seventeen, Judith Hatha- 
way, who was eight or ten years older than himself: 
he returned to his native town, after having sound- 
ed all depths of life, of nature, of passion, and 
ended his days as the respected father of a family, 
in calm, unostentatious privacy. 

One thing I will confess : — It is natural to feel 
an intense and insatiable curiosity relative to great 
men, a curiosity and interest for which nothing can 
be too minute, too personal. — And yet when I had 
ransacked all that had ever been written, discov- 
ered, or surmised, relative to Shakspeare's private 
life, for the purpose of throwing some light upon 
his Sonnets, I felt no gratification, no thankfulness 
to those whose industry had raked up the very few 
particulars which can be known. It is too much, 
and it is not enough : it disappoints us in one point 
of view — it is superfluous in another : what need to 
surround with common-place, trivial associations, 
registers of wills and genealogies, and I know not 
what, — the mighty spirit who in dying left behind 
him not merely a name and fame, but a perpetual 
being, a presence and a power, identified with our 
nature, diffused tnrough al? time, and ruling the 
beart and the fancy with an uncontrollable and 
universal sway : 



190 SYDNEY'S STELLA. 

I rejoice that the name of no one woman is pop 
ularly identified with that of Shakspeare. He be- 
longs to us all ! — the creator of Desdemona, and 
Juliet, and Ophelia, and Imogen, and Viola, and 
Constance, and Cornelia, and Rosalind, and Por- 
tia, was not the poet of one woman, but the 
Poet op Womankind. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

Sydney's stella. 

At the very name of Sir Philip Sydney, — the 
generous, gallant, all-accomplished Sydney, — the 
roused fancy wakes, as at the sound of a silver 
trumpet, to all the gay and splendid associations of 
chivalry and romance. He was in the court of 
Elizabeth, what Surrey had been in that of hei 
father, Henry the Eighth ; and like his prototype, 
Sir Calidore in the Fairy Queen, — 

Every look and word that he' did say 

Was like enchantment, that through both the ears 

And both the eyes, did steal the heart away. 

And as Surrey had his Fair Geraldine, Sydney had 
his Stella. 

Simplicity was not the fashion of Elizabeth's age 



sttovey'8 BTBLUL 191 

m any particular; the conversation and the poetry 
addressed by her stately romantic courtiers to her 
and her maids of honor, were hk< the dresses they 

wore, — stiff with jewels and standing on end with 

embroidery) gorgeous of hue and fantastic in form; 
but with many a brilliant gem of exceeding price, 

nattered up and down, where one would scarce 
think to find them ; losing something of their effect 
by betnn; misplaced, but none of their inherent 
beanty and value. The poetry of Sir Philip Syd- 
ney was extravagantly admired in his own time, 

and it has since been less read than it deserves. 
.t contains much of the pedantic quaintness, the 
labored ornament, the cumbrous phraseology, which 
was tin 1 taste, the language of the day: but he had 
elegance of mind and tenderness of feeling; above 
all, he was in earnest, and accordingly, there are 
oeautiful ami brilliant thinirs scattered through 
ooth his poetry and prose. If his " Phoenix-Stella*' 
be less popularly celebrated than the Fair Gerald- 
ine, — her name less intimate with our fancy, — it is 
not because her poet lacked skill to immortalize her 
in superlatives: it is the recollection of the mourn- 
ful fate and darkened fame of that beautiful but 
ill-starred woman, contrasted with the brilliant 
career and spotless glory of her lover, which strikes 
che imagination with a painful contrast, and makes 
•is reluctant to dwell on her memorv 

The Stella of Sydney's poetry, and the Philo- 
rfiea of his Arcadia, was the Lady Penelope Deve- 
reux, the elder sister of the favorite Essex. While 



192 Sydney's s tell a. 

yet in her childhood, she was the intended bride 
of Sydney, and for several years they were consid- 
ered as almost engaged to each other ; it was natural, 
therefore, at this time, that he should be accus- 
tomed to regard her with tenderness and unre- 
proved admiration, and should gratify both by 
making her the object of his poetical raptures. She 
was also less openly, but even more ardently, loved 
by young Charles Blount, afterwards Lord Mount • 
joy, who seems to have disputed with Sydney the 
first place in her heart. 

She is described as a woman of exquisite beauty, 
on a grand and splendid scale; dark sparkling 
eyes ; pale brown hair : a rich vivid complexion ; 
a regal brow and a noble figure. Sydney tells us 
that she was at first " most fair, most cold ; " — and 
the beautiful sonnet, 

With how sad steps, moon, thou climb'st the sky ! * 
How silently, and with how wan a face ! 

refers to his earlier feelings. He describes a tilt- 
ing match, held m presence of the Queen and 
Court, in which he came off victor — 

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance, 
Guided so well, that I obtained the prize, &c+ 

" Stella looked on," he says, " and from her fail 
eyes sent forth the encouraging glance that gave 
him victory." These soft and brilliant eyes are 

* Sonnet 31. t Sonnet 41. 



BTDNEY*8 si ELLA. 193 

often and beautifully touched upon ; and it must be 
remarked, never without an allusion to the modesty 

of their expression. 

eyes! that do the spheres of beauty move, 

Which, while tiny make Love conquer, conquer Lovo. 

And on some occasion, when she turned from him 
bashfully, be addresses her in a most impassioned 
•train, — 

Soul's joy ! bend not those morning stars from me, 
Where virtue is made strong by beauty's might, 
Where love is chasteness— pain doth learu delight 
And humbleness doth dwell with majesty : 
Whatever may ensue, let me be 
Copartner of the riches of that sight; 
Let not my eyes be hell-driven from that light, 
look ! shine ! let me die, and see ! * 

Another, " To Sleep," is among the most beau- 
tiful, and I believe more generally known. 

Look up, fair lids ! the treasure of my beart ! &c. 

There is also much vivacity and earnest feeling 
in the lines addressed to one who had lately left 
the presence of Stella, and of whom ) mquires 
of her welfare. Whoever has known w a it is to 
be separated from those beloved, to ask after them 
with anxious yet suppressed fondness, of some un- 
sympathizing acquaintance, to be alternately tan- 
talized and desespere, hv their vague and careleee 

• Sonnet 48. 



194 Sydney's Stella. 

replies, will understand, will feel their truth ano 
beauty. Even the quaint, petulant commencement 
is true to the sentiment : 

Be your words made, good Sir, of Indian ware, 
That you allow me them at so small rate ? 

* * * * * 

When I demand of Phoenix Stella's state, 
You say, forsooth, " Yon left her well of late." 

God ! think yon that satisfies my care ? 

1 wonld know whether she do sit or walk, — 

How clothed, how waited on ? sighed she, or smiled ? 
Whereof— with whom — how often did she talk? 
With what pastime time's jonrney she beguiled? 
If her lips deign' d to sweeten my poor name? 
Say all ! and all well said, still say the same ! 

At length, after the usual train of hopes, fears, 
complaints, and raptures, the lady begins to look 
with pity and favor on the " ruins of her con- 
quest ; " * and he exults in an acknowledged return 
of love, though her heart be given conditionally, — 

His only, while he virtuous courses takes. 

So far Stella appears in a most amiable and cap* 
tivating light, worthy of the romantic homage of 
her accomplished lover. But a dark shade steals 
like a mildew, over this bright picture of beauty 
poetry, and love, even while we gaze upon it 
The projected union between Sydney and Lady 
Penelope was finally broken off by their respective 

* Soonet 64. 



BTD3TJ f1| STBXL*. 19ft 

amihes, for reasons which do not appear.* Sir 
Charles Blount offered himself, and was infiiul, 
though evidently agreeable to the lady; and ihe 

irai married by her guardians (o Lord Rich, b 'JiaD 

of talents and integrity, but most disagreeable in 

person and manners, and her declared aversion. 

This inauspicions union ended, as might have 
been expected, in misery and disgrace. Lady 

Rich bore her fate with extreme impatience. Her 
warm affections, her high spirit, and her strength 

of mind, so heroically displayed in behalf of he? 
brother, served but to render her more poignantly 
sensible of the tyrmny which had forced her into 
detested bonds. She could not forget,—- perhaps 
never wished or sought to forget— that she had 
received homage of the two most accomplished 
men of the time.— Sydney and Blount; '-and not 
finding that satisfaction at home she ought to have 
received, she looked for it abroad where she ou^ht 
not to find it." 

Sydney describes a secret interview which took 
p.ace between himself and Lady Rich shortly aftei 
her marriage. I should have observed, that Sydney 

* " All the lords that wish well to the children cf the Earl of 
&wx, and I suppose all the best eorte of the English lord* 
besides, doe expert what will become of the treaty between Mr. 
Philip and my Lady Penelope. Truly, in- Lord. T must say S3 
roue lordship, as T have <aid it to my Lord of Leicester and Mr. 
Philip, the breaking off this match, if the default be on your 
paits, will turn to more dishonor Mian can be repaired with anj 
Jther marriage in England."— Letter of Mr. }YateAouje to S* 
Hinry Sydney, in '.he Sydney P-, 



196 Sydney's stella. 

designates himself all through his poems by tbi 
name of Astrophel. 

In a grove, most rich of shade, 

"Where birds wanton music made, 

May, then young, his pied weeds showing 

New perfumed with flowers fresh growing, 

Astrophel, with Stella sweet, 

Did to mutual comfort meet ; 

Both within themselves opprest, 

But each in the other blest; 

Him great harms had taught much care, 

Her fair neck afoul yoke bear ; 

But her sight his cares did banish, 

In his sight her yoke did vanish, &c. 

He pleads the time, the place, the season, **q 
Vheir divided vows ; and would have pressed W* 
wit more warmly, 

But her hand his hands repelling, 
Gave repulse — all grace excelling ! 

***** 
Then she spake ! her speech was such 
As not ear, but heart did touch, 
"Astrophel, (said she,) my love, 
Cease in these effects to prove ! 
Now be still ! — yet still believe me, 
Thy grief more than death would grieve aa* 
Trust me, while I thus deny, 
In myself the smart I try: 
Tyrant honor doth thus use thee ; 
Stella's self might not refuse thee ! 
Therefore, dear! this do more move; 
Lest though I leave not thy love, 
(Which too deep in me is framed!) 
Ithould blush when thou art named! 



B1UNEY*H BTBLLA. 197 

Tlic sentiment he has made lior express in the 
Ast line is beautiful, and too feminine and appro- 
priate not to have bees taken from nature ; but, 
Unhappily, it did not always govern her conduct. 
How far her coquetry proceeded, we do not know. 
Sydney, about a year afterwards, married the 
daughter of Secretary Walsingham, and survived 
his marriage but a short time. This theme of song, 
this darling of fame, and ornament of his age, per- 
ished at. the battle of Ztitphen, in the very summer 
of his glorious youth. " lie had trod," as the au- 
thor of the Effigies Poetics so beautifully expressed 
it, " from his cradle to his grave, amid incense and 
flowers — and died in a dream of glory !" 

His death was not only such as became the sol- 
dier and Christian ; — the natural elegance and sen- 
sibility of his mind followed him even to the verge 
of the tomb: in his last moments, when the morti- 
fication had commenced, and all hope was over, he 
called for music in his chamber, and lay listening 
to it with tranquil pleasure. Sydney died in his 
thirty-fourth year. 

Among the numerous poets who lamented thia 
deep-felt loss (volumes, I believe, were filled with 
the tributes paid to his memory,) was Spenser, 
whom Sydney had early patronized. His elegy, 
however, is too labored, :oo lengthy, too artificial, 
to please altogether, though containing some lines 
t)f great beauty. It is singular, ard a little incom- 
prehensible to our modern id3as of bienseance and 
jood taste, that in his eJegy, which Spenser dedi* 



IdS Sydney's stella. 

Dates to Sydney's widow after her remarriage with 
Essex, "he introduces Stella as lamenting over the 
L-ody of Astrophel, tells us how she beat her fair 
bosom — " the treasury of joy," — how she tore her 
lovely hair, wept out her eyes, — 

And with sweet kisses suckt the parting breath 
Out of his lips. 

At length, through excess of grief, or the com- 
passion of the gods, she is changed into the flower, 
" by some called starlight, by others penthia." 
This might pass in those days ; though, considering 
all the circumstances, it is strange that, even then, 
it escaped ridicule. 

The tears shed for Sydney, by those nearest and 
dearest to him, were but too soon dried. His 
widow was consoled by Essex, and his Stella, by 
her old lover Mountjoy, who returned from Ire- 
land, flushed with victory and honors, and cast 
himself again at her feet. Their secret intercourse 
remained, for several years, undiscovered. Lady 
Rich, who was tenderly attached to her brother, 
was guarded in her conduct, fearing equally the 
loss of his esteem, and the renewal of those hostile 
feelings which had already caused one duel bt?- 
tween Essex and Mountjoy. She had also chil- 
dren ; and as all, without exception, lived to be 
distinguished men and virtuous women, we may 
give her credit for some attention to their educa* 
tion, — some compunctious visitings of nature oa 
^heir account. 



SYDNEY'S >i i 1. 1. A. I9i> 

During hur brother's imprisonment, she made tlit 
Host strenuous, the diobI persevering efibrta to save 
sis life: she besieged Elizabeth with (lie richest 
presents, me mosl eloquent letters of supplication ; 
— she waylaid her at the door of her chamber, til! 
commanded to remain a prisoner in her own house; 
— she bribed, or otherwise won, all whom she 
thought could plead his cause ; — and when these 
were of no avail, and Essex perished, she seems, in 
her despair, to have thrown off all restraint— and 
at length, Red from the house of her husband. 

In 1605 she was legally divorced from Lord 
Kieh ; and BOOD after married Mountjoy, then Earl 
of Devonshire. The marriage of a divorced wife 
in the lifetime of her first husband, was in those 
days a thing almost unprecedented in the English 
court, and caused the most violent outcry and 
scandal. Laud (the archbishop, then chaplain to 
the Earl of Devonshire) incurred the censure of 
the Church for uniting the lovers, and ever after 
fasted on the anniversary of this fatal marriage. 
The Earl, one of the most admirable and distio 
guished men of that chivalrous age, who "felt a 
stain as a wound," found it impossible to endure 
the infamy brought on himself and the woman he 
lowd : he died about a year aftei ; " the griefe," 
lays a contemporary, u of this anhappie love 
brought him to his end."* 

His unfortunate Countess lingered but a short 

* Memoirs of King James's Peers, by Sir E Brydgef 



100 DRAYTON. 

time after him, and died in a miserable obscurity 
— Such is the history of Sydney's Stella. 

Three of her sons became English Earls ; the 
eldest, Earl of Warwick ; the second, Earl of Hol- 
land ; and the third (her son by Mountjoy) Earl 
of Newport. The earldoms of Warwick and 
Holland were held by her lineal descendants, till 
the death of that young Lord Warwick, whose 
mother married Addison. 



CHAPTER XVn. 

COTTRT! AND AGE OP ELIZABETH. 
DRAYTON, DANIEL, DRUMMOND, &£C. 

The voluminous Drayton* has left a collection 
of sonnets under the fantastic title of his Ideas. 
Ideas they may be, — but they have neither poetry, 
nor passion, nor even elegance; — a circumstance 
not very surprising, if it be true that he composed 
them merely to show his ingenuity in a style which 
was then the prevailing fashion of his time. Dray- 
ton was never married, and little is known of hif 
private life. He loved a lady of Coventry, tc 
whom he promises an immortality he has not bee» 
able to confer. 

* Died 1631. 



DANIKL. 201 

How many paltry, foolish, painted things 

That now in coaches trouble every 
Shall be forgotten, whom qo poet Binge, 

KYi- they be well vrrapp'd in their winding-sheet; 
While I to thoo eternity Bhall give, 

When nothing else rexnaineth of these days, 
And Queen* hereafter sliall he glad to lice 

Upon the ahu of (hy evperfluotu prove; 
Virgins and matrons reading these my rhyme*, 

Sliall ho so mnoh delighted with thy story, 
That they shall grieve they liv'd not in these times, 

To have seen thee, their sex's only glory: 
So thou ahalt By above the vulgar throng, 
Still to survive In my immortal song. 

There are fine nervous lines in this sonnet: we 
x>ng to hail the exalted beauty who is announced 
by such a flourish of trumpets, and arc proportion- 
ably disappointed to find that she has neither a 
local habitation nor a name." Drayton's little song, 

I pr'ythee, love! love me no more; 
Take back the heart you gave me! 

stands unique, in point of style, among the rest of 
his works, and is very genuine and passionate. 

Daniel* who was munificently patronized by the 
Lord Mountjoy, mentioned in the preceding sketch, 
was one of the most graceful sonnetteers of that 
time ; and he has touches of tenderness as well as 
fancy; for he was in earnest, and the object of his 
attachment was real, though disguised under the 
fcanie of Delia. She resided on the banks of the 
•Died in 1619 



20'2 DANIEL. 

River Avon, and was unmoved by the poet's strain* 
Rank, with her, outweighed love and genius. 
Daniel says of his sonnets — 

Though the error of my youth in them appear, 
Suffice they show I lived, and loved thee dear 

The lines 

Eestore thy tresses to the golden ore, 
Yield Citherea's son those arcs of love, 

are luxuriantly elegant, and quite Italian in thy 
flow and imagery. Her modesty is prettily set 
forth in another Sonnet — 

A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honor, 
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth, and love, 

The wonder of all eyes that looked upon her, 
Sacred on earth, designed a Saint above ! 

After a long series of sonnets, elaborately plain- 
tive, he interrupts himself with a little touch of 
truth and nature, which is quite refreshing : 

I must not grieve my love ! whose eyes should read 

Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile; 
The flowers have time before they come to seed, 

And she is young, and now must sport the whiJe. 
And sport, sweet maid ! in season of these years, 

And learn to gather flow'rs before they wither; 
And where the sweetest blossom first appears, 

Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither. 

If the lady could have been won by poeticai 
battery, she must have yielded. At length, unable 
to near her obduracj, and condemned to sett 



MN MMi.Mi. 20b 

Another preferred before him, Daniel resolved to 
travel; and he wrote, 00 this occasion, the most 
feeling of all his Sonnets. 

Anil whither, poor forsaken! wilt thou go? 

Daniel remained abroad several years, and 
returning, cured of his attachment, he married 
(liustina Florio, of a family of Wall lenses, who had 
fled from the frightful persecutions carried on in 
the Italian Alps against that miserable people. 
With her, he appears to have been sufficiently 
happy fo forget the pain of his former repulse, and 
enjoy, without one regretful pang, the fame it had 
given him as a poet 

Drummond, of Hawthornden,* is yet more cele- 
brated, and with reason. He has elegance, and 
sweetness, and tenderness; but not the pathos or 
the passion we might have expected from the 
circumstances of his attachment, which was as real 
and deep, as it was mournful in its issue. He 
loved a beautiful girl of the noble family of Cun- 
ningham, who is the Lesbia of his poetry. After 
a fervent courtship, he succeeded in securing her 
affections: but she died, "in the fresh April of her 
years," and when their marriage-day had been 
fixed. Drummond has left us a most charming 
picture of his mistress ; of her modesty, her retir- 
ing sweetness, her accomplishments, and her tender- 
ness for him. 

O sacred blush, empurplinc: cheeks, pure skies 
With orimson wings, which spread thee like themonr 
* ni.nl 1649. 



804 DRUMMOND. 

bashful look, sent from those shining eyes; 

tongue in which most luscious nectar lies, 
That can at once both bless and make forlorn; 

Dear coral lip, which beauty beautifies, 
That trembling stood before her words were born; 

And you her words — words ! no, but golden chains, 
Which did enslave my ears, eusnare my soul; 

Wise image of her mind, — m.vnd that contains 
A power, all power of senses to control ; 

So sweetly you from love dissuade do me, 

That I love more, if more my love can be. 

The quaint iteration of the same word through 
this Sonnet has not an ill effect. The lady was in 
a more relenting mood when he wrote the Sonnet 
on her lips, " those fruits of Paradise," — 



I die, dear life ! unless to me be given 

As many kisses as the Spring hath flowers, 

Or there be silver drops in Iris' showers, 
Or stars there be in all-embracing heaven; 

And if displeased ye of the match remain, 
Ye shall have leave to take them back again I 

He mentions a nandkerchief, which, in the days 
of their first tenderness, she had embroidered for 
him, unknowing that it was destined to be steeped 
in tears for her loss ! — In fact, the grief of Drum- 
mond on this deprivation was so overwhelming, 
that he sunk at first into a total despondency and in 
activity, from which he was with difficulty roused 
He left the scene of his happiness, and his re* 
{jrets— 



QUKKN ELIZABETH. 203 

Are these the flowery bunks? is this the mead 
Where she wto WOD.\ to pass the pleasant hours? 

Is this the goodly elm did us o'erspread, 

Whose tender rind, cut forth in curious flowers 

By that white; hand, contains those (lames of ours? 
Is this the murmuring Bpring, us music made? 
Deflouri.sh'd mead, where is your heavenly hue? 

He travelled for eight years, seeking, in change 
of place and scene, some solace for his wounded 
peace. There was a kind of constancy even in 
Drunmiond's inconstancy ; for meeting many years 
afterwards with an amiable girl, who bore the most 
striking resemblance to his lost mistress, he loved 
her for that very resemblance, and married her. 
Her name was Margaret Logan. I am not aware 
that there are any verses addressed to her. 

Drummond has been called the Scottish Petrarch: 
he tells us himself, that " he was the first in this Isle 
who did celebrate a dead mistress," — and his re- 
semblance to Petrarch, in elegance and sentiment, 
has often been observed : he resembles him, it is 
true — but it is as a professed and palpable imitator 
resembles the object of his imitation. 

***** 

On glancing back at the age of Elizabeth,— so 
adorned by masculine talents, in arts, in letters, 
ftnd in arms,— we are at first surprised to find so 
(few distinguished women. It seems remarkable 
lhat a golden epoch in our literature, to which 
the gave her name, " the Elizabethan age,"— a 
court in which a female ruled, — a oeriod fruitful 



£06 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 

in great poets, should have produced only one oj 
iwo women who are interesting from their poetical 
celebrity. Of these, Alice Spenser, Countess of 
Derby, and Mary Sydney, Countess of Pembroke, 
(the sister of Philip Sydney) are the most remark- 
able ; the first has enjoyed the double distinction of 
being celebrated by Spenser in her youth, and by 
Milton in her age, — almost too much honor for one 
woman, though she had been a muse, and a grace, 
and a cardinal virtue, moulded in one. Lady Pem- 
broke has been celebrated by Spenser and by Ben 
Jonson, and was, in every respect, a most accom- 
plished woman. To these might be added other 
names, which might have shone aloft like stars, 
and " shed some influence on this lower world," if 
the age had not produced two women, so elevated 
in station, and so every way illustrious by acciden- 
tal or personal qualities, that each, in her respective 
sphere, extinguished all the lesser orbs around her. 
It would have been difficult for any female to 
seize on the attention, or claim either an historical 
or poetical interest, in the age of Queen Elizabeth 
and Mary Stuart. 

In her own court, Elizabeth was not satisfied to 
preside. She could as ill endure a competitor in 
celebrity or charms, as in power. She arrogated 
to herself all the incense around her : and, in point 
of adulation, she was like the daughter of the 
horse-leech, whose cry was, " Give ! give ! " Her 
insatiate vanity would have been ludicrous, if il 
bad not produced such atrocious consequences 



QUE! n i .1.1/ LBJ i it. 201 

This was the predominant weakness of her char- 
acter, win ch neutralized her talents, and was pam- 
pered, till in its excess it became a madaeei and a 

\i. a. This precipitated the late of lier lovely rival, 
Mary, Queen of Scots. This elevated the profli- 
gate Leicester* to the pinnacle of favor, and kept 
him there, sullied as he was by every baseness, and 

every crime; this hurried Essex to the block; ban- 
ished Southampton; and scut Raleigh and Eliza- 
beth Throckmorton to the Tower. Did one of her 

attendants, more beautiful than the rest, attract the 

notice or homage of any of the gay cavaliers 
around her, — was an attachment whispered, a mar- 
riage projected,— it was enough to throw the whole 
court into consternation. "Her Majesty, the 

Queen, was in a passion;" and, then, Heaven help 
the offenders 1 It was the spirit of Harry the 
Eighth let loose again. Yet such is the reelected 
glory she derives from the Sydneys and the Ra- 
leighs, the Walsinghams and Cecils, the Shak- 
speares and Spensers of her time, that we can 
scarce look beyond it, to stigmatize the hard, un- 
feminine egotism of her character. 

There was something extremely poetical in her 
situation, as a maiden queen, raised from a prison 
to a throne, exposed to unceasing danger from 
without and treason from within, and supported 
through all by her own extraordinary talents, and 
by the devotbn of the chivalrous, gallant courtiers 

» Leicester's influence over Elizabeth appeared so unacrounfr 
»ble, that it was ascribed to magic, and to b^r erii stars. 



&08 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 

and captains, who paid to her, as their queen and 
mistress, a homage and obedience they would scarce 
have paid to a sovereign of their own sex. All 
this display of talent and heroism, and chivalrous 
gallantry, has a fine gorgeous effect to the imagi- 
nation ; — but for the woman herself, — as a woman, 
with her pedantry, and her absurd affection ; her 
masculine temper and coarse insolence ; her sharp, 
shrewish, cat-like face, and her pretension to beau- 
ty, it is impossible to conceive any thing more anti- 
poetical. 

Yet had she praises in all plenteousness 
Pour'd upon her like showers of Castalie.* 



She was a favorite theme of the poets of the time 
and by right divine of her sceptre and her sex, an 
object of glorious flattery, not always feigned, even 
where it was false. 

She is the Gloriana of Spenser's Fairy Queen, 
— she is the " Cynthia, the ladye of the sea," — ghe 
is the "Fair Vestal throned in the West," of 
Bhakspeare — 

That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not,) 

Flying between the cold moon and the earth. 

Cupid all arca'd: a certain aim he took 

At a fair Vestal, throned by the West, 

And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow 

As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts; 

But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft 

* Spenser's Daphnaida. 



QUEEK F.I.I/ AIIKTII. 20'J 

QuoncliM in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon; 
And the Imperial vot'reu pnoood on 

In maiden meditation, fancy free. 

And the previous allusion to Mary of Scotland, as 
the " Sea Mai<I on the Dolphin's back," 

Uttering mob dulcet and harmonious breath, 
Thai the rude sea grew civil at her song, 

is not less exquisite. 

It would, in truth, have been easier for Mary to 
have calmed the rude sea than her ruder and 
wilder subjects. These two queens, so strangely 
misplaced, seem as if, by some, sport of destiny, 
i had dropt into the sphere designed for the 
other. Mary should have reigned over the Syd- 
neys, the Essexes, the Mountjoys; — and with her 
smiles, and sweet words, and generous gifts, have 
inspired and rewarded the poets around her. Eliz- 
abeth should have been transferred to Scotland, 
where she might have bandied frowns and hard 
names with John Knox, cut off the heads of re- 
bellious barons, and boxed the ears of ill bred 
courtiers. 

This is no place to settle disputed points of his- 
tory, nor, if it were, should I presume to throw an 
opinion into one scale or the other ; but take the 
two queens as women merely, and with a reference 
to apparent circumstances, I would rather have 
been Mary than Elizabeth ; I would rather have 
been Mary, with all her faults, fraiUies, and mis- 

14 



210 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 

fortunes, — all her power of engaging hearts,— be- 
trayed by her own soft nature, and the vile or 
fierce passions of the men around her, to die on a 
scaffold, with the meekness of a saint and tho 
courage of a heroine, with those at her side who 
would willingly have bled for her, — than I would 
have been that heartless flirt, Elizabeth, surround- 
ed by the oriental servility, the lip and knee hom- 
age of her splendid court ; to die at last on her 
palace floor, like a crushed wasp — sick of her own 
very selfishness — torpid, sullen, and despairing, — 
without one friend near her, without one heart in 
the wide world attached to her bv affection or 
gratitude. 

There is more true and earnest feeling in some 
little verses written by Ronsard on the unhappy 
Queen of Scots, than in all the elegant, fanciful, 
but extravagant flattery of Elizabeth's poets. After 
just mentioning the English Queen, whom he de- 
spatches in a single line, — 

Je vis leur belle reine, honnete et virtueuse; 
he thus dwells on the charms of Mary : 

Je vis des Ecossais la Keine sage et belle, 
Qui de corps et d'esprits ressemble une immortelle 
J'approchai de ses yeux, mais bien de deux soleiis, 
Deux soleiis de beauts, qui n'ont point leurs pareila. 
Je les vis larmoyer d'une claire ros^e. 
Je vis d'un clair crystal paupiere arrosee, 
Se souvenaat de France, et du sceptre laiss«S, 
Et de son premier feu, comme un songe passe" ! 



MA.ir, QUI in OF SCOTS — RONSARD. 211 

And when Alary was a prisoner, he dedicated to 

her a whole honk of poems, in which he celebrates 

her with a warmth, the more delightful that it was 
disinterested. He thanks her for selecting his 
poems to amuse her solitary hours, and adds feel- 
ingly,— 

Car, jo no vcux en ce mondo dhoisil 

Plus grand honneur quo vous donncr plaisir! 

Mary did not leave her courteous poet unre- 
warded. She contrived, though a prisoner, to 
lend him a casket containing two thousand crowns, 
And a vase, on which was represented Mount Par- 
nassus, and a Hying Pegasus, with this injjorip- 
tion : — 

A Ronsard, l'Apollon de la source des Muses. 

No one understood better than Mary the value 
of a compliment from a beauty, and a queen; had 
she bestowed more precious favors with equal 
effect and discrimination, her memory had escaped 
some disparagement. Ronsard, we are told, was 
•ufficiently a poet to value the inscription on his 
vase more than the gold in the casket. 

Apropos to Ronsard : the history of his loves is 
§o whimsical and so truly French, that it must 
claim a place here. 

Yet now f am upon French ground, I may as 
well take the giant's advice, and " begin at the be- 
ginning." * It seems at first view unaccountable 

* B41ier, mon ami ! Commencez par le commencement! 

Count Uamiltoj 



$12 DIANE DE POICTIER&. 

that France, which has produced so jnany remark- 
able women, should scarce exhibit one poetica* 
heroine of great or popular interest, since its lan- 
guage and literature assumed their present form 
not one who has been rendered illustrious or dear to 
us by the praises of a poet lover. The celebrity of 
celebrated French women is, in truth, very anti- 
poetical. The memory of the kiss which Mar- 
guerite d'Ecosse * gave to Alain Chartier, has long 
survived the verses he wrote in her praise. Clem- 
ent Marot, the court poet of Francis the First, was 
the lover or rather one of the lovers of Diana of 
Poictiers, (mistress to the Dauphin, afterwards 
Henry the Second.) She was confessedly the most 
beautiful and the most abandoned woman of her time. 
Marot could hardly have expected to find her a 
paragon of constancy ; yet he laments her fickle- 
ness, as if it had touched his heart. 

A DIANE. 

Puisque de vous je n'ai autre visage, 
Je m'en vais rendre hermite en un desert, 
Pour prier Dieu, si un autre vous sert, 

Qu'autant que moi en votre honneur soit sage. 

Adieu ! Amour ! adieu, gentil corsage ! 

Adieu ce teint ! adieu ces friands yeux ! 
Je n'ai pas eu de vous grand avantage, — 

Un moins aimant aura peut-etre mieux. 

* * La gentille Marguerite," the unhappy wife of Louis thg 
Eleventh. Beautiful, accomplished, and in the very spring Oi 
|fe, she died a victim to the detestable character »f her husbano 
When one of Ler attendants spoke of hope and life, the Que*) i 



DIANE DE hilt i ii 211 

In a (ktison of more vanity and profligacy, the 
transition from love (if love it be) to hatred and 
malignity, is not uncommon — as Spenser sa>s so 
beautifully, 

Such love might never long endure, 
However gay and goodly be the style, 

That dothe ill cause or evil end enure: 
For Virtue is tho band that bindeth hearts most sure! 

From being the lady's lover, Marot became her 
satirist ; instead of chansons in praise of her beauty, 
he circulated the most biting and insufferable epi- 
grams on her person and character. We are told 
by one, who, I presume, speaks avec conna'issance 
defait, that a woman's revenue 

Is like the tiger's spring, 
Deadly and quick, and crushing. 

Diana was a libelled beauty, all-powerful and un- 
principled. Marot, in some moments of gayety 
and overflowing confidence, had confessed to her 
that he had eaten meat on a "jour maigre:" he 
had better in those days have committed all the 
seven deadly sins ; and when the lady revealed his 
unlucky confession and denounced him as a heretic, 
he was immediately imprisoned. Instead, however, 
of being depressed by his situation, or moved to 
make any concession, he published from his prison 
a most ludicrous .ampoon on his cl-devanL mis- 
naming from her with an expression of deep disgust, exclaimed 
with a last effort, " Fi de la vie ! ne m'en parlez plus !»- -and e* 
•lied 



814 DIANE DE POICTIERS. 

tress, of which the burden was, " Prenez le, il a 
mange le lard ! " He afterwards made his escape, 
and took refuge in the court of Renee, Duchess of 
Ferrara; and though subsequently recalled to 
France, he continued to pursue Diana with the 
most bitter satire, became a second time a fugitive, 
partly on her account, and died in exile and pov- 
erty.* 

Marot has been called the French Chaucer. 
He resembles the English poet in liveliness of 
fancy, picturesque imagery, simplicity of expres- 
sion, and satirical humor ; but he has these merits 
in a far less degree ; and in variety of genius, 
pathos, and power, is immeasurably his inferior. 

Ronsard, to whom I at length return, was the 
successor of Marot. In his time, the Italian son- 
netteers, as Petrarch, Bembo, Sanazzaro, were the 
prevailing models, and classical pedantry the pre- 
vailing taste. Ronsard, having filled his mind with 
Greek and learning, determined to be a poet, and 

* At Altkorp, the seat of Lord Spenser, there is a most curi- 
ous picture of Diana of Poictiers, once in the Crawford collec- 
tion : it is a small half-length ; the features are fair and regular ; 
the hair is elaborately dressed with a profusion of jewels ; but 
there is no drapery whatever, except a curtain behind : round 
the head is the legend from the forty-second Psaim, — " Comme le 
cerf braie apres le decours des eaues, ainsi brait mon ame apres 
toi, Dieu ! " which is certainly a most extraordinary and pro- 
fane application. In the days of Diana of Poictiers, Marot hao 
composed a version of the Psalms, then very popular. It was 
the fashion to sing them to dance and song tunes; and th« 
sourtiers and beauties had each their favorite psalm, whicb 
nerved »is a kind of devise. This may explain the very singula? 
inscription on this very singular picture. 



ronsard's cassandre— marie. 213 

looked about for a mistress to be the object of hil 
longs : for a poet without a mistress was then an 
Dnheard-of anomaly. He fixed upon a beautiful 
woman of Blois, named Cassandre, whose Greek 
appellative, it is said, was her principal attraction 
in his fancy. To her he addressed about two hun- 
dred and twenty sonnets, in a style so lofty and 
pedantic, stuffed with such hard names and philo- 
sophical allusions, that the fair Cassandre must 
have been as wise as her namesake, the daughter 
of Priam, to have comprehended her own praises. 
Kousard's next love was more interesting. Her 
name was Marie : she was beautiful and kind : the 
poet really loved her; and consequently, we find 
him occasionally descending from his heights of 
affectation and scholarship, to the language of 
truth, nature, and tenderness. Marie died young ; 
and among Ronsard's most admired poems are two 
or three little pieces written after her death. As 
his works are not commonly met with, I give one 
fts a specimen of his style : — 

EPITAPHE DE MARIE. 

Ci reposent les os de la belle Marie, 
Qui me fit pour un jour quitter mon Vendomois, 
Qui m'echauffa le sang au plus verd de mes moia; 
Qui fut toute mon tout, mon bien, et mon en vie. 

En sa tombe repose honneur et courtoisio, 

Et la jeune beaute - qu'en l'ame je sentois. 

Et lo flambeau d' Amour, ses traits et son carquoi», 

Et ensembb mon coeur, mes pendes et ma vie- 



!16 RONSARD'S MARIE— HELENE. 

Tu es, belle Angevine,* un bel astre des cieux, 
Les anges, tous ravis, se paissent de tes yeux, 
La terre te regrette, beaute" sans seconde ! 

Maintenant tu es vive, et je suis mort d'annui, 

Malheureux qui se fie en l'attente d'autrui: 

Trois amis m'ont tromp£, — toi, 1'amour, et le monda 

Ronsard had by this time acquired a reputation 
which eclipsed that of all his contemporaries. He 
was caressed and patronized by Charles the Ninth, 
(of hateful memory,) who, like Nero, exhibited the 
revolting combination of a taste for poetry and the 
fine arts, with the most sanguinary and depraved 
disposition. Ronsard, having lost his Marie, was 
commanded by Catherine de' Medicis to select a 
mistress from among the ladies of her court, to be 
the future object of his tuneful homage. He politely 
left her Majesty to choose for him, prepared to fall 
in love duly at the royal behest : and Catherine 
pointed out Helene de Surgeres, one of her maids 
of honor, as worthy to be the second Laura of a 
second Petrarch. The docile poet, with zealous 
obedience, warbled the praises of Helene for the 
rest of his life. He also consecrated to her a foun- 
tain near his Chateau in the Vendomois, which has 
popularly preserved her name and fame. It is still 
known as the " Fontaine d'Helene." 

Helene was more witty than beautiful, ard, 
though vain of the celebrity she had acquired in 
the verses of Ronsard, she either disliked him in th« 

* Ronsard was a native of the Vendomois, and Marie, d 
injou. 



k<>>.sm{|>'> in i.i \ i . 21 7 

lharacter of a lover, or was one of those, lofty 

todies 

Who liafo tc have their dignity profaned 
With any relish "fan earthly thought.* 

She desired the Cardinal du Perron would recpest 

Ronsard (in her name) to prefix an epistle to the 
ndes and sonnets addressed to her, assuring the 
world that this poetical love bad been purely Pla- 
tonic. " Madam" said the Cardinal, " you had 
better give him leave to prefix your pieture."t 

I presume my fair and gentle readers (I shall 
have none, I am sure, who are not one or the other, 
or Loth,) are as tin.! as myself of all this affecta- 
tion, and glad to turn from it to the interest of pas- 
sion and reality. 

" There is not," says Cowley, " so great a lie to 
be found in any poet, as the vulgar conceit of men, 
that lying is essential to good poetry." On the con- 
trary, where there is not truth, there is nothing 

Rien n' est beau que le vrai,— le vrai sen] est amiable I 
***** 
While the Italian school of amatory verse was 
flourishing in France, Spain, and England, almost 
to the extinction of originality in this style, the 
brightest light of Italian poesy had arisen, and was 
Bhining with a troubled splendor over that land 
of song. How swiftly at the thougnt does imagina* 

* Ben Jonson. 

t V Bayle Pictionnri* Historique.— Pierre de Ronsard wa# born 
& 1624, and diod in 1586. 



£18 LEONORA d'eSTE. 

tion 3hoot " like a glancing star," over the wide ex- 
panse of sea and land, and through a long interval 
of sad and varied years ! I am again standing with- 
in the porch of the church of San Onofrio, looking 
down upon the little slab in its dark corner, which 
covers the bones of Tasso. 



CHAPTER XVLTL 



LEONORA D'ESTE. 



Leonora d'Este, a princess of the proudest 
house in Europe, might have wedded an emperor, 
and have been forgotten. The idea, true or false, 
that she it was who broke the heart and frenzied 
the brain of Tasso, has glorified her to future ages ; 
has given her a fame, something like that of the 
Greek of old, who bequeathed his name to immor- 
tality, by firing the grandest temple of the uni- 
verse. 

The question of Tasso's attachment to the Prin- 
cess Leonora, is, I believe, set at rest by the acute 
researches and judicious reasoning of M. Ginguene, 
and those who have followed in his steps. A body 
of circumstantial evidence has been collected, 
which would not only satisfy a court of love — but 

court of law, with a Lord Chancellor, to boot 



l.KO.N.Mt \ D*l 9 I I 219 

* perpending" at the head of it That which was 
nice regarded as a romance, which we wished to 
believe, if we could, is now an established fact, 

wiiK h we ei >t disbelieve it' we would. 

No poet perhaps ever owed bo much to female 
influence as Tasso, or wrote bo much under the in 
tozicating inspiration of love and beauty. Ele paid 

most dearly for such inspiration: and yet not too 

dearly. The bigh tone of sentiment, the tender* 

neSS, and tin- delicacy which pervade all his poems, 
which prevail even in his most voluptuous descrip- 
tions, and which give him such a decided superior- 
ity over Ariosto, cannot he owing to any change of 

manners or increase ot* refinement produced by 

the lapse ot" a lew years. It may be traced to the 
tender influence of two elegant women. He for 
many years read the cantos of the Geru-alcmme, 
as he composed them, to the Princesses Lucretia 
and Leonora, both of whom he admired, — one of 
whom he adored. 

Au reste— the kiss, which he is said to have im- 
printed on the lips of Leonora in a transport of 
frenzy, as well as the idea that she was the primary 
cause of his insanity ami of his seven years' impris- 
onment at St. Anne's, rest on no authority worthy 
of credit ; yet it is not less certain that she was the 
object of his secret and fervent admiration, and 

that this hopeless passion conspired, with many 
other causes, to fever his irritable temperament and 

nnsettle his imagination, beyond that •« fine mad- 
cess," whL. we are told ought " to possess the 
5>oet's b'-ain " 



§90 LEONORA D'ESTE. 

When Tasso first visited Ferrara, in 1565, he 
was just one-and-twenty, with all the advantages 
which a fine countenance, a majestic figure, (for he 
was tall even among the tallest,) noble birth, and 
exceeding talents could bestow : he was already 
distinguished as the author of the Rinaldo, his ear- 
liest poem, in which he had celebrated (as if pro- 
phetically) the Princesses d'Este, — and chiefly 
Leonora. 

Lucrezia Estense, e 1' altra i cui crin d' oro, 
Lacci e reti saran del casto amore.* 

When Tasso was first introduced to her in hei 
brother's court, Leonora was in her thirtieth year , 
a disparity of age which is certainly no argument 
against the passion she inspired. For a young man, 
at his first entrance into life, to fall in love ambi- 
tiously — with a woman, for instance, who is older 
than himself, or with one who is, or ought to be, 
unattainable, — is a common occurrence. Tasso, 
from his boyish years, had been the sworn servant 
of beauty. He tells us, in grave prose, " che la 
sua giovanezza fu tutta sotto-posta all' amorose leg- 
gi ; " f but he was also refined, even to fastidious- 
ness, in his intercourse with women. He had 
formed, in his own poetical mind, the most exalted 
idea of what a female ought to be, and unforti* 

* See the Rinaldo, c. 8. 

t From my very birth. 

My soul was drunk with love, &c 

Lament of Tasso- 



LE0N0R4 i>'i -i i 221 

fcately ; she who first realized all his dreamt of* per- 
fection, was a Princess — " there seated where he 

il:rst not soar." Leonora was still eminently 
lovely, in that soft, artless, unobtrusive style of 
beauty, which is charming in itself, and in a prin- 
cess irresistible, from its contrast with the loftiness 
of her station and the trappings of her rank. Her 
complexion was extremely fair ; her features small 
and regular ; and the form of her head peculiarly 
graceful, if I may judge from a fine medallion I 
once saw of her in Italy. Ill health, and her early 
acquaintance with the sorrows of her unfortunate 
mother, had given to her countenance a languid 
and pensive east, and sicklied all the natural bloom 
of her complexion ; but " Paleur, qui marque une 
ame tendre, a bien son prix : " so Tasso thought; 
and this " vago Pallorc," which vanquishes the rose, 
and makes the dawn ashamed of her blushes," he 
has frequently and beautifully celebrated ; as in 
the pretty Madrigal — 

Vita della mia Vita! 
Bosa scolorta ! &c. 

and in those graceful lines, 

Lauguidetta belta vinceva amore, &o 

applicable onty to Leonora. Her eyes were blue ; 
her mouth of peculiar beauty, both in form and 
expression. In the seventh Sonnet, " Bella e la 
tionna mia," he says it was the most lovaiy featuro 



222 LEONORA D'ESTE. 

in her face ; in another still finer,* he styles thif 
exquisite mouth " a crimson shell " — 

Purpurea conca, in cui si nutre 
Candor di perle elette e pellegrine ; 

and he concludes it with one of those disguises 
under which he was accustomed to conceal Leo- 
nora's name. 

E di si degno cor tuo stra leonora. 

She was negligent in her dress, and studious and 
retired in her habits, seldom joining in the amuse- 
ments of her brother's court, then the gayest and 
most magnificent in Italy.f Her accomplished and 
unhappy mother, Renee of France,^ had early 
instilled into her mind a love of literature, and 
especially of poetry. She was passionately fond 
of music, and sang admirably. One of Tasso's 
most beautiful sonnets was composed on some 
occasion when her physician had forbidden her to 
sing. He who had so often felt the magic of that 
enchanting voice, thus describes its power and 
laments his loss : — 

Ahi, ben e reo destin, ch' invidia, e toglie 
Almondo il suon de' vostri chiari accenti, 

* Rose, che 1' arte invidiosa mira, &c- 

t Alteremente umile 
Te chiundi ne' tuoi cari alti soggiorni. 
tThe daughter of Louis XTT. She was closely imprisoned 
during twelve years, on suspicion of favoring the early re 
formers. 



LEONORA DEST&. 228 

Onde addlviea ohe le terrene genti 

De' maggior pre *i, Impoverisoa e spoglie. 

Oh' ogni aebbia mortal, ohe '1 Benao acooglie, 
Sgombrar potea dalle piu foeohe menti 
L' armoma dolce, e bei pensieri ardentl 

Spirar d' onore, e pure e nobil voglie. 

Ma non si merta qui forse cotanto: 

E basta beu ohe i sereni occhi, e '1 rise. 
N' infiammin d' un piacer celeste e santo 

Nulla fora piu bello il Paradiso, 

Se '1 mondo udisse, in voi d' angelo il canto, 
Siccome vede in voi d' angelo il viso. 

11 O cruel— O envious destiny, that hast deprived 

the world of (hose delicious accents, that hast made 
earth poor in what was dearest and sweetest ! No 
cloud ever gathered over the gloomiest mind, 
which the melody of that voice could not disperse ; 
it breathed but to inspire noble thoughts and chaste 
desires.— But, no ! it was more than mortals could 
deserve to possess. Those soft eyes, that smile 
were enough to inspire a sacred and sweet delight. 
—Nor would Paradise any longer excel this earth, 
if in your voice we heard an angel sing, as we 
behold an angel's beauty in your face ! " 

Leonora, to a sweet-toned voice, added a gift, 
which, unless thus accompanied, loses half its 
value, and almost all its charm— she spoke well ; 
*nd her eloquence was so persuasive, that we are 
told she had power to move her brother Alphonso, 
when none else could. Tasso says most poetically, 



224 LEONORA D'ESTE. 

E 1' aura del parlar cortese e saggio, 

Fra le rose spirar, s' udia sovente; 

—meaning— for to translate literally is scarce 

possible,-that " eloquence played round ler lips, 

like the zephyr breathing over roses." 

"I (he adds,) beholding a celestial beauty walk 
the earth, closed my eyes in terror, exclaiming, O 
rashness ! O folly ! for any to dare to gaze on such 
charms! Alas! I quickly perceived that this was 
my least peril. My heart was touched through my 
ears, her gentle wisdom penetrated deeper than 
her beauty could reach." 

With what emotions must a young and ardent 
poet have listened to his own praises from a 
beautiful mouth, thus sweetly gifted ! and it may 
be added that Leonora's eloquence, and the in- 
fluence she possessed over her brother, were ever 
employed in behalf of the deserving and un- 
fortunate. The good people of Ferrara had such 
an exalted idea of her piety and benevolence, that 
when an earthquake caused a terrible inundation 
of the Po, and the destruction of the surrounding 
villages, they attributed the safety of their city 
entirely to her prayers and intercession. 

Leonora then was not unworthy of her illustrious 
conquest, either in person, heart, or mind. To be 
summoned daily into the presence of a Princess 
thus beautiful and amiable, to read aloud his yersea 
to her, to hear his own praises from her lips, to 
cask in her approving smiles, to associate with hei 
in her retirement, to behold her in all the graceful 



LSONOBJ d'i B i B. 225 

simplicity of her familiar life,-— was a dang* roua 
sit nation for TasM>, and sorely not leas so for 

Leonora herself That she was aware of his ad- 
miration, and perfectly understood his sentiments, 
and that a mysterious intelligence existed between 
them, consistent with the utmost reverence on his 
part, and the moal perfect delicacy and dignity on 
hers, is apparent from the meaning and tendency of 
innumerable passages scattered through his minor 
poems — too significant in their application to be mis- 
taken. Though that application be not avowed, and 
even disguised— the very disguise, when once de- 
tected, points to the object. Leonora knew, as well 
as her lover, that a princess M was no love-mate for 
a bard." She knew far better than her lover, until 
he too had been taught by wretched experience, 
the haughty and implacable temper of her brother 
Alphonso, who never was known to brook an 
injury or forgive an offender. She must have re- 
membered too well the twelve years' imprisonment 
and the narrow escape from death, of her unfortu- 
nate mother for a less cause. She was of a timid 
and reserved nature, increased by the extreme 
delicacy of her constitution. Her hand had fre- 
quently been sought by princes and nobles, whom 
she had uniformly rejected at the risk of displeas- 
ing her brother ; and the eyes of a jealous court 
were upon her. Tasso, on the other hand, was 
imprudent, hot-headed, tearless, ardently attached. 
For both their sakes, it was necessary for Leonora 
to be guarded and reserved, unless she would have 
15 



226 LEONORA D'ESTE. 

made herself the fable of all Italy And in what 
glowing verse has Tasso described all the delicious 
pain of such a situation ! now proud of his fetters, 
now execrating them in despair. In allusion to 
his ambitious passion, he is Phaeton, Icarus, Tan 
talus, Ixion. 

Se d' Icaro leggesti e di Fetonte, &c. 

But though presumption flung to ruin Icarus and 
Phaeton, did not the power of love bring even 
Dian dcwn " from her amazing height ? " 

E che non puote 
Amor, che con catena il ciel unisce ? 
Egli giii trae delle celeste rote 
Di ten-ana belta Diana accesa, 
E d'Ida il bel Fanciul* al' ciel rapisce. 

This at least is clearly significant, however 
poetical the allusions ; but what a world of passion 
and of meaning breathes through the Sonnet 
which he has entitled " The constrained Silence," 
(" 11 Silenzio Imposto") 

" She is content that I should love her ; yet, 
what hard restraint of galling silence has she im- 
posed!" 

Vuol che T ami costei; ma duro freno 
Mi pone ancor d' aspro silenzio ; or quale 
Avro da lei, se non conosce il male 
medecina, e refrigerio almeno? 
***** 

* Ganymede. 



k.K.n\(>K \ !)'! 227 

Tucrr D6fl -o! <-li' |o ' 

Bangne aH< Inoe :il rhro foeo 

Nod brami pjl i : questi «' Impoeslbi] vogta 
Troppo Bplnse pungent! :i dentro i oolpl, 

E troppo :ir.|or.> aCOOlse in piooiol loco: 
S' apparira, n:itur:i, o B6 n' incol{)i.* 

"Yes, I can, T will keep silence; but to com- 
mand that the wound shall not bleed nor the fire 
burn, is to command impossibility. Too, too deep 

hath the blow been struck ; too ardently glows the 
Maine; and if betrayed, the fault is in nature — not 
in me ! " 

And again, what can be more exquisitely tender, 

more beautiful in its fervent simplicity of* expree* 

iion, than the effusion whieh follows? How miser- 
ably does an adequate prose translation halt after 
the glowing poetry, the rhythmical music, the 
"linked sweetness " of the original 1 

Io non cedo in amar, Donnn gentile 

A' chi mostra di fuor V intenio affotto; 
Perch e '1 mio si nasconda in mezzo '1 petto, 
Ne co' fior s' apra del mio nuovo Aprile, 

Co' vaghi sguardi, e col sembiante uraile, 
Co' detti sparsi in variando aspetto 
Altri si veggia al vostro amor soggetto, 
E co' sospiri, e con leggiadro stile. 

E mando gela il cielo, e quando infiamma, 
E quando parte il sole, e quando riede, 
Vi segua ; come il can selvaggia damma. 

• Sou net 37- 



128 LEONORA D'ESTE 

Oh' io se nel cor vi cerco, altri nol vede, 
E sol mi vanto di nascosa fiamma, 
E sol mi glorio di secreta fede.* 

u I yield not in love, O gentlest lady ! to those 
who dare to show their love more openly, though I 
conceal it within the centre of my heart, nor suffer 
it to spread forth like the other flowers of my 
spring. Let others boast themselves subjects of 
love for your sake, and slaves of your beauty, with 
admiring looks, with humble aspect, with sighs, 
with eloquent words, with lofty verse ! whether the 
winter freeze or the summer burn, — at set of sun, 
and when he laughs again in heaven, let them still 
pursue you, as dogs the shy and timid deer. But I 
— O, I seek you in my own heart, where none else 
behold you ! My hidden love be my only boast ; 
my secret faith, my own glory ! " 

Without multiplying quotations, which would 
extend this sketch from pages into volumes, it is 
sufficient to trace through Tasso's verses the little 
incidents which varied this romantic intercourse 
The frequent indisposition of Leonora, her absence 
when she went to visit her brother, the Cardina, 
d'Este, at Tivoli, form the subjects of several beau« 
tiful little poems ; as the Sonnets 

Dianzi al vostro languir, &c. 

Donna! poiche forttma empia mi nega 

Seguirvi, &c. 

Al nobil colle, ove in antichi marmi 
Di Greco mano opre famose ammira 
Vaga Leonora mio pensier mi gira 

* Sonnet 29. 



LBONOB a I) KSTK. 22b 

Here lie. names her expressly; while in the little 
lament — 

■ da vol, ben mlo! 
N'on ho vita no core! o non ton io 
Non sono, oirce ! non Bono 
Quel ch' altra volta fui, ma un Ombra meata, 
Un higrimovol suono, 8 

—the tone is too passionate to allow of it He 
finds her looking up one night at the stars; it if 
lufhYient to inspire that beautiful little song, 

Mentre, mia stclla, miri 

I bcl cclcsti girl, 

II cielo esser vorrei, 
Perch6 negli occhi miei 
Fiso tu rivol 

Le tue dolci favflle; 

Io vagheggiar poteasl 

Mille belJezze tue, con luci mille ! * 

He relates, in another little madrigal, that stand- 
ing alone with her in a balcony, he chanced, per- 
haps in the eagerness of conversation, to extend 
his arm on hers. He asks pardon for the freedom, 
and she replies with sweetness, "You offended 
not by placing your arm there, but by withdrawing 
it." This little speech in a coquette would have 
been sans consequence from such a woman ns 
Leonora, it spoke volumes ; and her lever felt it so. 

•I am to.d the original idea b in Plato; prettier however, 
Aan either, was the speech of a modern lover, whose mistresa 
vas gazing pensively on a star: « Ne la -egardea pas tant, chew 
unie!— je ne puis pas te la donner'" 



230 LEONORA D'ESTE. 

He breaks forth in a rapture at trie tender conde- 
scension, 

parolette amorose, &c. 

Then comes a cloud, but whether of temper 01 
jealousy, we know not. One of those lucklesi 
trifles, perhaps, 

— that move 
Dissension between hearts that love. 

Tasso accompanied Lucrezia d'Este, then Duchess 
of Urbino, to her villa of Castel Durante, where he 
remained for some time, partaking in all the 
amusements of her gay court, without once seeing 
Leonora. He then wrote to her, and the letter 
fortunately has been preserved entire. 

Though guarded in expression, it is throughout 
m the tone of a lover piqued, and yet conscious 
that he has himself offended ; and seeking, with a 
sort of proud humility, the reconciliation on which 
his happiness depends. He sends her a sonnet, 
which he admits is " far unlike the elegant effusions 
he supposes her now in the habit of receiving. He 
begs to assure her, that though it be in art and wit 
as poor as he is himself in happiness, yet in his 
present pitiable condition, he could do no better; 
(not that he was to all appearance so very much to 
be pitied.) He adds, '' do not think, however, that 
in this vacancy of thought, my heart has found 
leisure for love. The Sonnet is merely composed 
at the request of a certain poor lover, who has for 
Borne time past quarrelled with his mistress antf 



L4QNOB I i> kstk. 231 

liow no longer able to endure his hard fortune, ii 
obliged to yield, and §ue Cor grape and pardon." 
•* 11 quale easendo itato on peszo in colera con la 

mi a donna, ora non potendo pin DVOgna <he si 

randa e che dimanda mercfe." Tke Bonnet an- 

dosed in this letter, (" Sdegno, debil ( iuerrier,") 
appears to ine one of* the least pleasing in the 

colleetion ; as if his genius and his feelings were 

both under some benumbing influence when he 
wrote it. 

In the meanwhile, there was a report that Leo- 
nora was about to be united to a foreign Prince. 
Her hand had been demanded of her brother with 
the usual formalities. On this occasion TfeSBO 
wrote the fine Canzone, 

Amor, tu vedi, e non hai duolo o sdegno, &c 

" Love ! canst thou look on without grief or 
indignation, to see my gentle lady bow her fair 
neck to the yoke of another ?" 

The expression in the 6th strophe is very un- 
equivocal — 

" Nor let my mistress, though she suffer her 
bosom to be invaded by a newer flame, forget the 
former bond." 

Ne la mia Donna, percte scaldi il petto 
Di nuovo amore, nodo antix.-o sprezzi. 

In one of his Sonnets, this jealous pain is yet 
l&ore strongly expressed : — 

lo sparse ed altri miete ! &c 



882 LEONORA d'eSTE. 

" I sow, another reaps ! I water a lovely blossom, 
nnworthy, alas ! to tend it ; and another gatheri 
the fruit. O rage ! — yet must I, through coward 
fear, lock my grief within my own bosom ! " &c. 

This intended marriage never took place ; and 
Tasso, relieved from his fears, and restored to the 
confidence of Leonora, was again comparatively- 
blessed. He sometimes ventured to name her 
openly in his poems, — as in the little Madrigal, 

Cantava in riva al fiume 

Tirse di Leonoka, 

E rispondean le selve, e l'onde, (mora. 

Sometimes he disguised her name as l'Aurora, 
l'Aura, Onor, le onora,* 

Dell' Onor simulacro e '1 nome vostro. 

To these the preceding Madrigal is a sort of key , 
or the better to conceal the true object of his adora- 
tion, he carried his apparent homage, and often hia 
poetical gallantry, to the feet of other fair ladies. 
Lucretia d'Este, the elder sister of Leonora ; Tar- 
quinia Molza, a beauty and a poetess ; and Lucretia 
Bendidio, another most accomplished woman, who 
numbered all the poets and literati of Ferrara in 
her train, frequently inspired him. 

* The Canzone which, is, I believe, esteemed the finest of thOM 
addressed to Leonora, 

Mentre ch' a venerar nmovon le gente, 
tncludee with this play upon her name — 

Costei ie onoea col bel nome santo. 
She does them honor by her sacred 



LE0N0B4 i»'i 2M.'i 

The meotion of Lucretia Bendidio reminds mo 
of an incident in Tasso'i early life, which, beeidei 
being characteristic <>f his times and genius, is ex- 
tremely apropos to my presenl purpose and Bnbjecij 

In thf days of his first enthu-i.i-in for Lucretia, 

when he and Guarini were rivals for her favor, 
he undertook to maintain, publicly, fifty //uses, or 
difficult questions, in the M Science ( ,f Love." 
These " Conclusion) amorod " may be found in the 
third volume of the great folio edition of his works; 

and some of them, it must be confessed, afforded 

matter for much amnaing and edifying discussion; 

for instance', — M Amore esserpiu neU'amatachenelT 

ainante."- that love exists rather in the person be- 
loved than in the lover," which seems to involve a 
nice distinction in metaphysics: and " Xes-una am- 
ata essere, o poteressere ingrata," — M that no woman 
truly beloved, is or can be ungrateful," which in- 
volves a mystery — and a truth. And the 48th, 
" Se piii si patisea, o non rieevendo alcun preinio, 
o rieevendo minor del desiderio," — " whether in 
love, it be harder to receive no recompense what- 
ever, or less than we de-ire," — a question so diffi- 
cult to settle, and so depending on individual feel- 
inn, that it should have been put to the vote. 
Others prove, that whatever was the practice in 
those days, the received and philosophical theory of 
love was sublime enough ; for instance, the 14th, 
"That the more love is regulated by reason, the 
more noble it is in its nature. ' (Agreed to, with 
txceptions, of which Tasso himself might furnish 



884 LEONORA D'ESTE. 

the most prominent.) That "compassion in om 
aex is never a sign of reciprocal affection, but 
the contrary." (True, generally.) The 34th, 
" That the respect of the lover for her he loves in- 
creases the value and delight of every favor she 
grants him." (I think this must have passed un- 
disputed, or by acclamation.) 

The 38th of these curious propositions, " L'uomo 
in sua natura amar piu intentamente e stabilmente 
ehe la donna," — that " men by nature love more 
intensely and more permanently than women," was 
opposed by Signora Orsolina Cavaletta, a woman 
of singular accomplishments, and who displayed, in 
defence of her sex, so much wit and talent, such 
various learning, ingenuity, and eloquence, that the 
young disputant, perhaps placed in a dilemma be- 
tween his honor and his gallantry, came very 
hardly off. This singular exhibition continued for 
three days, and was conducted with infinite solem- 
nity, in presence of the Court and the Princesses ; 
all the nobility and even the superior clergy of 
Ferrara crowded to witness it ; and I doubt whether 
any lecture at the British Institution, or mathemat- 
ics, or electricity, or geology, was ever listened to 
by our fair bas-bleus with half as much interest as 
Tasso's " Fifty Theses on Love " excited at Fer- 
rara. 

Several years after his first introduction to Leo- 
nora d'Este, and after some of the most impassioned 
and least ambiguous of his verses were written, th« 
Court of Ferrara was embellished by the arrival of 



LE0H0R4 i ■'! 285 

h»o of the most beautiful women in all Italy, — Le- 
onora di Sanvitali, Countess of Scandiano, then a 
youthful bride, and her aot less lovely mother-in- 
law, Barbara, Countess of Sala. The Coux 
Scandiano is the other Li onoba who has puzzled 
all tlir biographers, from the open gallantry and 
avowed adoration wkh which Tasso has celebrated 
her; but in -trains, — O how differenl from the Ben- 
tinirni, the veneration, the tenderness, and the 
mystery which breathe through his verses to Leo- 
nora d'Este ! A third Leonora was said to exist in 
the person of the Countess's favorite attendant ; 
but this is untrue. The name of Leonora's waiting- 
maid was Laura. Tasso has addressed several 
little poems to her ; and there can be no doubt that 
she occasionally served as a blind to his real attach- 
ment for her mistress. The countess of Seandia- 
no's attendant was the fair Olympia, to whom is 
addressed that exquisitely graceful Canzone, 

con le Grazie elerte, e con gli umori. 

The Duchess of Ferrara's maid, the beautiful 
bivia d'Areo, and even her dwarf, are also immor- 
talized in Tasso's verses, who poured forth his 
courtly gallantry with an exhanstlos and splendid 
prodigality, fitting their praises to his lyre, as if it 
had never resounded to higher themes. 

At a court festival given by the Duke Alphonso, 
in honor of his beautiful and illustrious visitors, the 
Countess of Sala appeared with her fine hair 
wreathed round her head in the form of a coronet, 



186 LEONORA d'ESTE. 

which with her grand style of beauty and majestic 
deportment, gave her the air of a Juno. The 
young Countess of Scandiano, on the other hand> 
enchanted by her Hebe-like graces, her smiles, and 
the unequal beauty of a pouting under-lip ; — noth- 
ing was talked of at Ferrara out these braided 
tresses and this lovely lip ; the poets and the young 
cavaliers were divided into parties on the occasion. 
Tasso has celebrated both with the same voluptuous 
elegance of style in which he described his Armi- 
da. To the Countess of Scandiano he wrote, 

Quel labbro, che le rose han colorito 
Molle si sporge, e tumidetto in fuore, &c. 

To the Countess of Sala, 

Barbara ! maraviglia de' tempi nostrl. 

But the Countess of Scandiano was more espec- 
ially the object of his public adoration. It was a 
poetical passion, openly professed ; and flattering, 
as it appears, both to the lady and to her husband, 
without in any degree implicating either her dis- 
cretion or that of Tasso. Compare his verses to 
this young Countess — this peregrina Fenice,* as he 
fancifully styles her, who comes shining forth, not to 
'->e consumed, but to consume, — to the profound ten- 
derness, the intense yet mournful feeling of soma 
of the poems composed for the Princess d'Esto, 
fcbout the same time ; when he must have dail* 

* " Foreign Phoenix." 



LEONORA DB8TE. 23 1 

eontnistcd the rich bloom, the smiling eyea, and 
sparkling graces of the youthful Countess, with the 
fading or faded beanty, the languid form, and pale 
cheek of his long-loved Leonora Sec particularly 

the Sonnet 

Tre gran Donne viu" io, Sec. 

" Three illustrious ladies did I behold, — I sung 
them all — one only I loved," &e. And another, 
equally beautiful and significant, 

Perche 'n giovenil volto amor mi mostri 
Tata; Donna Baal, rose e lignstrl 
Oblio non ponfl in me, de' miei trilu-tri 
Aflanni.o de miei spesl Indaroo inchiostrL 

E '1 cor, che 3' Invaghi degli onor vostri 
Da prima, e vostro I'u poscla j)iii lustri 
Reserba, amo in so. forme piu illustri 
Che perle e gemme, e bei coralli ed ostri 

Queste egli in suono di sospir s} chiari 
Farrebbe udir, che d' amorosa face 
Accenderebbe i piu gelati cori. 

Ma oltre suo costume e fatto avaro 
De' vostri pregi, suoi dolci tesori, 
Che in se medesmo gli vagbeggia e tact! 

TRANSLATION. 

" Albeit in younger faces Love at times 
May show me where a fresher rose is set, 
Yet, Roijnl Lady, can I not forget 
My fifteen years of pain and useless rhyme*. 

This heart, so touch'd by all thy beauty bright, 
After so man 7 ymrs is still thine own. 



!S8 LEONORA d'ESTE. 

And still retaineth forms more exquisite 
Than pearls, or purple gems, or coral stone. 

All this my heart in soft sighs would make known 
And thus with fire the coldest bosom fill, 
But that unlike itself, that heart hath grown 

So covetous of thy sweet charms and thee, 
(Its secret treasures,) that it aye doth flee 
Inwards, and dwells upon them, and is still.* 

Lastly, that most perfect Sonnet, so well known 
and so celebrated, that I should not insert it here, 
but that I am enabled to give, for the first time, a 
translation equally faithful to the sentiment and 
the poetry of the original. 

Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa 
Sembravi tu, ch' ai rai tepidi, all' ora 
Non apre '1 sen, ma nel suo verde ancora 
Verginella s' asconde, e vergognosa. 

piu tosto parei (che mortal cosa, 
Non s' assomiglia a te) celeste Aurora, 
Che le campagne imperla, e i monti indora 
Lucida in ciel sereno e rugiadosa. 

Or la men verde eta nulla a te toglie ; 
Ne te, benche negletta, in manto adorno 
Giovinetta belta vince, o pareggia. 

Cosi pin vago e '1 fior, poiche le foglie 
Spiega odorate : e '1 sol nel mezzo giorno 
Yie-piu, che nel mattin, luce e fiammeggia. 

TRANSLATION. 

" Thou, in thy unripe years, wast liko the rose. 
Which shrinketh from the summer dawn, afraid, 

* Translated by a friend. 



r B01TOH \ n'KSTK. 239 

And witli her green veil, like a bnsWul maid, 
Hideth her boBom sweet, and scarcely Mows: 

Or mtlior. — (for what Bhape ever • 

From the <!till earth like thee,) thou didst appear 
Heavenly Aurora, who, when aides are clear, 

Her dewy pearla o*er all the country bows. 
Time Btealeth nought: thy rare and oareleee graoe 

Bnrpaasetb Btill the youthful bride when neatest/— 
Bear wealth of dress, her budding blooming face, 

So is the fttll-blown rose for age the sweetest, 
Bo doth the mid-day sun outshine the morn, 
With rays more beautiful and brighter born!"* 

Y«>t all this was too little. Tlis minor lyrics, the 
unlabored and spontaneous affusions of leisure, of 

fancy, of sentiment, would have been <_dory enough 
for any other poet, and fame enough tor any other 
woman : but Tasso had founded his hopes of im- 
mortality on bis great poem, The Jerusalem De- 
livered ; and it was imperfect in his eyes unless 
Leonora were shrined in it. To convert the pale, 
gentle, elegant invalid into a heroine, seemed im- 
possible : she was no model for his lovely amazon, 
Clorinda ; nor his exquisite sorceress, Armida ; 
nor his love-sick Erminia : for her, therefore, and 
to her honor, and to the eternal memory of his 
love for her, he composed the episode in the second 
Canto, where we have her portrait at full length 
as Sophronia. 

Vergine era tra lor, dl gia matura 
Verginita, d' alta pensieri e regi, 

• Translated by a friend. 



«40 LEONORA D'ESTE. 

D' alta Belta ; ma sua belta non cura, 

tanto sol quant' onesta sen fregi ; 

E '1 suo pregio maggior che tra le mora 

D' angusta casa, asconde i suoi gran pregii 

E da' vagheggiatori ella s' invola, 

AUe lodi, agli sguardi, inculta e sola. 

Non sai ben dir s' adorno, o se negletta, 
Se caso od arte, il bel volto compose, 
Di natura, d' amor, di cieli amici, 
Le negligenze sue sono artsfici. 

Mirata da ciascun, passa, e non mira 
L' altera Donna ! 

TKANSLATION. 

u Among them dwelt a noble maid, matured 
In loveliness, of thoughts serene and high, 
And loftiest beauty ; — beauty which herself 
Esteem' d not more than modesty might own. 
Within a humble dwelling did she hide 
Her peerless charms, and shunning lovers' eyes, 
From nattering words and glances, lived retired. 

Whether 'tis curious care, or sweet neglect, 
Or chance, or art, that have array' d her thus, 
One scarce can tell: for each unstudied grace 
Has been the work of Nature, heaven, and love. 

And thus admired by all, unheeding all, 
Forth steps the noble maid. 

It is impossible to mistake, in this finished and 
exquisite portrait, the matured beauty, the negligent 
attire, and love of solitude which characterized 
Leonora : the resemblance was so perfect, as to be 



LSONOH \ i) r.siE. 24 1 

universally recognized and acknowledged But it 
is not, as M. Ginguene remarks, equally certain 
that Tasso has portrayed himself aa Olindo? 

E che modesto e, com' essa e bella, 
Bnuna assai, poco spera, nulla chiedel 

He, full of modesty and truth, 

Loved much, hoped little, and desired nought 

Has he not in the verse 

Ed o mia morte awenturosa appiena, 

breathed forth all the smothered passion of hii 
eoul ? — 

Ed o mia morte awenturosa appienal 
Oh fortunati miei dole! martiri! 
S'impetrerb che giunto seno a seno 
L'aoima mia nella boo bocca iospiri, 
E venendo tu meco a un tempo me no 
In me fuor mandi gli ultiini sospir' 

And ! how happy were my death ! how blest 
These tortures,— could I but the meed obtain, 
That brenst to breast, and lip to lip, our souls 
Might flee together, and our latest sighs 
Mingle in death. 

This episode is critically a defect in the poem : it 
seems to stand alone, unconnected in any way 
with the main action ; he acknowledged this ; but 
he absolutely, and obstinately, refused to alter it, 
or strike it out. He, who was in general amenable 
to criticism, even to a de^re* of weakness, willed 

16 



842 LEONORA D'ESTE. 

that it should stand an everlasting monument of 
bis tenderness, and of the virtues and the charms 
of her who inspired it: — and thus it has been. 

A cruel, and as I think, a most unjust imputation 
rests on the memory of the Princess Leonora 
She is accused of cold-heartedness, in suffering 
Tasso to remain so long imprisoned, without in* 
terceding in his favor or even vouchsafing any 
reply to his affecting supplications for release, and 
for her mediation in his behalf. The excuse al- 
leged by those who would fain excuse her,— 
" That she feared to compromise herself by any 
interference," is ten times worse than the accusa- 
tion itself. But though there exists, I suppose, no 
written proof that Leonora pleaded the cause of 
Tasso, or sought to mitigate his sufferings ; neithei 
is there any proof of the contrary. We know 
little, or rather nothing of the private intrigues 
of Alphonso's palace : we have no " memoires 
secretes " of that day ; no diaries kept by prying 
courtiers, to enlighten us on what passed in the 
recesses of the royal apartments : and upon mere 
negative presumption, shall we brand the character 
of a woman, who appears on every other occasion 
BO blameless, so tender-hearted, and beneficent, 
with the imputation of such barbarous selfishness? 
for the honor of our sex, and human nature, I 
must believe it impossible. 

In no other instance was the homage which 
Tasso loved to pay to high-born beauty repaid with 
ingratitude ; all his life seems to have been as 



LBOMOB v D*B8 I B 243 

Dbjtrt of affectionate interest to women. They 
in his misery, Btood not aloof, I •■ 1 1 ministered to him 
the oil and balm, which soothed his vexed and <lis- 
tempered spirit. The Countesses of Sala and 
Bcandiano never forgot him. Lucretia Bendidio, 

who had married into the Marchiavelli liunily, sent 
him in his captivity all the consolation -lie could 

bestow, or he receive. The Duchess of Qrbinq 
(Lucretia d'Este) was munificently kind to him. 

The young Prin-i -^s of Mantua, she tor whom he 
wrote his » Torrismondo," Loaded him with courtesy 
and proofa of her regard, lie was ill at tint Court 
Of Mantua, after his release from l'errara ; and 
her exertions to procure him a copy of Euripides, 
Which he wished to consult, (an anecdote cited 
somewhere, as a proof of the rarity of the book 
at that time,) is also a proof of the interest and at- 
tention with which she regarded him. It happened 
when he was at the Court of the Duke of Urhino, 
that he had to undergo a surgical operation ; and 
the sister of the Duke, the young and beautiful 
Lavinia di Rovera, prepared the bandages, and 
applied t hem with her own fair and princely hands; 
— a little instance of affectionate interest, which 
Tasso has himself commemorated. If then we do 
not find Leonora publicly appearing as the bene- 
factress of Tasso, and using her influence over her 
brother in his behalf, is it no* a presumption that 
she was implicated in his punishment? What 
comfort or kindness she could have granted, must, 
under such circumstances, have ) een bestowed 



244 LEONORA D'ESTE. 

with infinite precaution ; and, from gratitude and 
discretion, as carefully concealed. We know, that 
after the first year of his confinement, Tasso was 
removed to a less gloomy prison ; and we know 
that Leonora died a few weeks afterwards ; but 
what share she might have had in procuring thig 
mitigation of his suffering we do not know ; nor 
how far the fate of Tasso might have affected her 
bo as to hasten her own death. If we are< to argue 
upon probabilities, without any preponderating 
proof, in the name of womanhood and charity, let 
it be on the side of indulgence ; let us not believe 
Leonora guilty, but upon such authority as never 
has been, — and I trust never can be produced. 

About two years after the completion of the 
Jerusalem Delivered, and four years after the first 
representation of Aminta, when all Europe rung 
with the poet's fame, Tasso fled from the Court of 
Ferrara, in a fit of distraction. His frenzy was 
caused partly by religious horrors and scruples* 
partly by the petty but accumulated injuries which 
malignity and tyranny had heaped upon him; 
partly by a long-indulged and hopeless passion 
and with these, other moral and physical causes 
combined. He fled, to hide himself and his sorrows 
in the arms of his sister Cornelia. The brother 
and sister had not met since their childish years 
and Tasso, wild with misery, forlorn, and penniless. 
knew not what reception he was to meet with 
When arrived within a league of his birthplace 



i I ONOKA DSS1 B. 245 

Borrenlo, 4 tie changed clothes with a shepherd, 

lad in this disguise appeared before hi> >i.-tei,as 
one tent with tidings of bar brother's misfortonea 
The recital, we maj believe, was not coldly given. 
Cornelia, who appears to have inherited with the 
personal beauty, the sensibility and strong domosdc 
affections of her mother, Portia,*} was bo violently 
agitated by the eloquence of the feigned messenger, 
that she fainted away ; and Tasso was obliged to 
hasten the denouement by discovering himself. In 
the same moment he was clasped in her affection- 
ate arms, and bathed with her tears. IIuw often, 
when I have stood on my balcony at Naples, have 
I looked towards the white buildings of Sorrento, 
glittering afar upon the distant promontory, and 
thought upon this scene ! and felt, how that which 
is already surpassingly beautiful to the eye, may 
be hallowed to the imagination by such remem- 
brances as these I 

Tasso resided with his sister for three years, the 
abject of her unwearied and tender attention. It 
was on his return to Ferrara, (recalled, as Manso 
says, by the tenor of Leonora's letters,*) that he 
was imprisoned as a lunatic at St. Anne's. They 
ihow to travellers the cell in which he was con- 

* Near Naples : thus, in his pathetic Canzone on himself,— 
Sassel la gloriosa alma Sirena 
Appresso il cui sepolcro, ebbi la cuna ! 

t The wife of Bernardo Tasso See an account of her la 
Hack's Life of Tasso. 

t Manso, Vfca di T. Tasso 



fc46 LEONORA D'ESTE. 

fined. Over the entrance of the gallery leading 
to it, is written up in large letters, " Ingresso alia 
Prigione di Torquato Tasso," as if to blazon, in the 
eye of the stranger, what is at once the renown 
and disgrace of that fallen city. The cell itself is 
Bmall, dark, and low. The abhorred grate, 

Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 

is a semi-circular window, strongly cross-barred 
with iron ; it looks into a court-yard, so built up, if 
I remember rightly, that the noonday sun could 
scarce reach it. Even without the hallowed asso- 
ciations connected with the spot, it would have 
thilled and saddened me. With them, the very 
air had a suffocating weight; and the cold dark 
wall, and low-bowed roof, struck a shivering awe 
through the blood. Upon the plaster outside the 
grated window, I observed several names written 
in pencil ; among the rest, those of Byron and 
Rogers. I must observe here, that the " Lament 
of Tasso " is, in fact, a canto taken from Tasso's 
minor poems. Almost every sentiment there ex- 
pressed, may be found in the Italian ; but the soul 
of the poet has been transfused with such a glow- 
ing impulse into its new mould, it never seems to 
\jave been adapted to another ; the precious metal 
is the same, only the impress is different, and it hai 
been stamped by a kindred and a master spirit 
"X>rd Byron says, 

Yes, Leonora ! it shaii be our fate 
To be entwined forever; but too latel 



U <>\ in; \ d'i: 24.' 

Taaso had said, that his name and that of Leonora 
ihould be united and sear to fame togetbeft 

" Ella i\ mici versi, ed io 

Circondiivu al bixo Dome altera phuna, 

B 1' an per faltn :uulo volando a prova; ' 

—and a long list of corresponding paaaagea an<* 
sentiments might easily be pointed out 

The inscription on the door of Tasso's cell, lien, I 
believe, like many other inscriptions. Tasso was not 

Confined in this cell tor seven years ; hut here it was 
that he addressed that affecting Can/one to Leo- 
nora and her si>ter Lucivzia, which begins " Figtie 
ili Kciiata,"— " Daughters of ltenee!" Thus in 
the very commencement, by this delicate and 
tender apostrophe, bespeaking their rn isj u nni on. 
by awakening the remembrance of their mother, 
like him so long a wretched prisoner. He reminds 
them of the years he spent at their side — " their 
noble servant and their dear companion," 
Gli anni miei tra voi spese, — 

Qual son, — qual fui, — che chiedo — ove mi trovo! * 
He was, after the first year, removed to a larger 
cell, with better accommodations. Here he made 
a collection of his smaller poems lately written, 
and dedicated them to the two Princesses. But 
Leonora was no longer in a state to be charmed by 
the verses, or flattered or touched by the admiring 
ievotion of her lover, — her poet — her faithful ser 

• Part of this Canzone has been e.egantly translated b} Mr 
dllfen, in his Life of Tas>\ p. 83 



148 LEONORA D'ESTB. 

rant : she was dying. A slow and cureless dis 
ease preyed on her delicate frame, and she expired 
in the second year of Tasso's imprisonment. When 
the news of her danger was brought to him, he 
requested his friend Pignarola to kiss her hand in 
his name, and ask her whether there was any thing 
which, in his sad state, he could do for her ease 
or pleasure ? We do not know how this tender 
message was received or answered ; but it was too 
late. Leonora died in February, 1581, after lin- 
gering from the November previous. 

Thus perished, of a premature decay, th* 
woman who had been for seventeen years the 
idol of a poet's imagination, — the worship of a 
poet's heart ; she who was not unworthy of being 
enshrined in the rich tracery-work of sweet 
thoughts and bright fancies she had herself sug- 
gested. The love of Tasso for the Princess Leo- 
nora might have appeared, in his own time, some- 
thing like the " desire of the night-moth for the 
star ! " but what is it now? what was it then in the 
eyes of her whom he adored ? How far was it 
permitted, encouraged, repaid in secret ? This we 
cannot know ; and perhaps had we lived at the 
time, — in the very Court, and looked daily into 
her own soft eyes, practised to conceal, — we had 
been no wiser. Yet one more observation. 

When Leonora died, all the poets of Ferrara 
pressed forward with the usual tribute of elegy and 
eulogium ; but the voice of Tasso was not heard 
among the rest. He alone flung no garland on th# 



LEONORA i:\ho.\t. 249 

bier of her, whose living brow he had wreathed with 
the brightest flowersofsong. Thi» is adduced bySe- 
rassi ai ;i proof that be had never loved her. Gin 
goene 4 bima If can only account for it. by the pre 
mmption that he was piqued by t Li.it coldness and 
neglect, which I have shown was merely supposing 
tious. Strange reasoning I as if Taaso, while his 
heart bled over his loss, in hie solitary cell, could 
have deigned to join this crowd of courtly mourn- 
ers! as if, under such circumstances, in such a 
moment, the greatness of bis grief could have 
burst forth in any terms that must not have ex- 
posed himself to fresh rigors, and the fame, at least 
the discretion, of her he had loved, to suspicion I 
No I nothing remained to him but silence ;— and 
he was silent 



-thh 



CHAPTER XIX. 

MILTON AND LEONORA BARONI. 

The Marquis Manso of Naples, who in his early 
youth had entertained Tasso in his palace, had 
cherished and honored him when that great but 
unhappy man was wandering, brain-struck with 
misery, from one court to another —was, in hia 
Old age, the host and admirer of Milton; thus, by 
I singular good fortune, allying his name to two 0/ 



&>0 LEONORA BARONI. 

the most illustrious of earth's diviner sons : while 
theirs, linked together by the recollection of this 
common friend, follow each other in our memory 
by a natural transition. We can think of them as 
pressing, though at an interval of many years, the 
same friendly hand, and gracing the same hospitable 
board with " colloquy sublime." Tasso, from the 
romance of his story, and his personal character, 
is the most interesting of the two ; yet Milton, 
besides standing highest in the scale of moral 
dignity, sits nearest to our hearts as an English- 
man, whose genius, speaking through our native 
accents, strikes upon our sense, 

Like the large utterance of the early gods. 

***** 

We rise from reading Johnson's Biography of 
Milton, either with the most painful and indignant 
feeling of the malignity of the critic,* or with an 
impression of Milton's character, as false as it is 
Ddious. Of moral inconsistency and weakness, 
olended with splendid genius, we have proofs 
lamentable and numerous enough : to be obliged 
to regard the mighty father of English verse, — 
him " who rode sublime upon the seraph wings of 
ecstasy," — him, whose harmonious soul was tuned 
to the music of the spheres, though when struck 
in evil times, and by an adverse hand, it sent forth 
ft crash of discord, — him, who has left us the mosl 

* What Dr. Johnson wrote is known; — he was accustomed U 
■ny that the admiration expressed for Milton was all «MU. 



i i OKOBJI B \uoM. 251 

exquisite picture* of ten dor n o BS and beauty — to 
think of such a being as b petty domestic tyrant, a 
boarse-minded fanatic, stern and unfeeling in all 
the relations of life, were enough to confound all 

our ideas of moral Illness. When we figure to 
ouiselves the author of Kassehs trampling over 
the ashes of Milton, lending his mighty powers to 

degrade the majestic, to disfigure the beautiful, and 

darken the glorious, it is with the same feeling of 
COneentrateil disgust with whieh we recall the 
violation of the poet's grave, some year- BgO, when 

vulgar savages defaced ami carried oil' his sacred 

ami venerable remains piecemeal.* Let us for a 
moment imagine our Milton descending to earth to 
BSSert his injured fame, and confronted with his 
great biographer — 

Look here upon this picture, and on this — 

The one, like his own Adam, with fair large front 
and hyaeinthine locks, serene and blooming as his 
own Eden ; in all the dignified graces which tem- 
perance and self-conquest lend to youtluf in all 
the purity of his stainless mind, radiant like another 

* T have before me the pamphlet, entitled " A Narrative ol the 
disinterment of Milton's coffin, on Wednesday the 4th of August, 
1790, and of the treatment of the Corpse during that and the 
Allowing day." The circumstances are too revolting to be 
dwelt upon. 

t Si les Anges, (said Madame de Stael,) n'ont pas ete representee 
tous ]fiS traits do fomme, c'est parceque l'union de la force avee 
ta purete, est plui belle et plus celeste encore quo la irodestk 
»»4»ne \& plus parfvi e dans un 5tre faible. 



552 LEONORA BARONI. 

Moses, with the reflected glories of the Empyieum, 
— and then look upon the other ! — But it is an 
awful thing for little people, to meddle with great 
and sacred names ; and so leaving the Hippopotamus 
of literature in his den — proceed we. 

It relieves the heart from an oppressive contra* 
diction to behold Milton, such as he was represented 
by his other biographers, and such as undoubtedly 
he really was. It is well known, that in his youth, 
and even at a late age, he had an uncommonly 
fine person, almost to effeminacy ; and was as 
gracefully endowed in form and manners, as he 
was highly and holily gifted in mind. His natural 
mildness, cheerfulness, and courtesy, are com- 
memorated by all who knew him, or lived near 
his time.* He whom Johnson accuses of a " Turk- 
ish contempt of females, as inferior beings," and 
whom he represents in a light so ungentle and 
gloomy, that we cannot imagine him under the 
influence of beauty, was early touched by the 
softest passions, and during his whole life peculiarly 
sensible to the charm of female society : witness 
his successive marriages, and his friendship and 
intercourse with Lady Margaret Ley, and the all- 
accomplished Countess of Ranelagh, who supplied 



* See his life by Dr. Symmons, Dr. Todd, Newton, Hayley 
Aubrey Richardson, Warton. 

" She (his daughter Deborah) spoke of him with great tender- 
ness ; she said he was delightful company, the life of the coi» 
fsrsation, and that on account of a flow of subject, and ao 
cheerfulness and civility," &c. — Riohabdson. 



LEOVOBA BABOIR. 253 

to him, as he says, the place of every friend;* 

witness, too, a thousand most lovely ami glorious 
passages scattered through his works, which women 
may quote with triumph, as proofs thai we had no 
small influence over tin- imagination of our great 
epic poet WYuA but tin- mosl reverentia] ami 
lofty feeling of the graces ami virtues proper to 

our sex, could have embodied SUCfa an exquisite 

vision as the Lady in Comus? or created his de- 
lightful Eve? on whom, M ason a queen, a pomp 
of winning graces waited still." 

All higher knowledge in her presence falls 
Degraded; wisdom, in discourse with her, 
Loses dlsoountenano'd, and like folly shows; 

Authority and reason on her wait, 
As one intended first, not after made 
Occasionally; and to consummate all, 
Greatness of mind and nohleness their seat, 
Built in her loveliest, and create an awe 
About her, as a guard angelic plac'd. 

And this is the being whom a lady-author calls 
a " great overgrown baby, with nothing to rec- 
ommend her but her submission, and her fine 
hair !"f— two things, be it observed, among the 
most graceful of our feminine attributes, mental 
and exterior. The poet who conceived and wrote 
this description, most assuredly had not a " Turkish 
contempt" for the female character. 

* She was Catherine Boyle, the daughter of the Great Earl of 
Cork, one of the most excellent and most distinguished wonMi 
If that time. — See Hayley' l s Lije of Milton. 

t Miss Letitia Hawkins. 



054 LEONORA BARONI. 

Milton was in love, as lie tells us himself, at 
nineteen ; but the object cannot even be guessed 
at. He has celebrated this boyish passion very 
beautifully in one of his Latin elegies. One of 
the passages in this poem, in which he compares 
the effect produced on him by the first momentary 
view of his mistress, followed by her immediate 
absence to the Theban (Eclides,* swallowed up 
by the abyss which opens beneath him, and gazing 
back upon the parting light of day, is admired for 
its classic sublimity and appropriate beauty. 

There is a tradition mentioned by all his bio- 
graphers, that while Milton was a student at Cam- 
bridge, an Italian lady of rank, who was travelling 
in England, found him sleeping one day under the 
shade of a tree, and, struck with his beauty, wrote 
with her pencil on a slip of paper, the pretty 
madrigal, of Guarini, which Menage translated 
for Madame de Sevigne, " Occhi, stelle mortali," 
and leaving it in his hand, pursued her journey. 
This fair unknown is said to have been the cause 
of Milton's travels into Italy ; but the story rests 
on no authority : and it is clear, that the " foreign 
fair" to whom the Sonnets are addressed, was 
neither imaginary nor unknown. During his stay 
at Rome, he was received with particular dis- 
tinction by the Cardinal Barberini, the nephew of 
the reigning Pope, and at his palace had frequen, 
opportunities of hearing Leonora Baroni, the 
finest singer in Italy. She was the daughter of 

* Otherwise Amphiaraus : his story is told by Ovid. Met. B. 8 



r.roNoitA makoxi. 255 

Adnaia <>f Mantua, nurnamed, for bar beauty, 
La Bella Adrians, and the beat anger and player 
on the lute of her time, Leonora inherited bey 

mother's extraordinary talent for music, and eon- 
snared all hearts by the inexpressible charm of her 
voice and style, she was also a poetess, frequently 

Composing the words of her own songs. Though 
not a regular beauty, she had brilliant oyes, and 
a captivating countenance and manner. Count 
Fulvio Testi, in a Sonnet addressed to her, cele- 
brates the union of so many charms: 

Tm il conconto e '1 falgor, dubbio e se sia 
. udir piu doloe, o il rtmirar piii caro. 
Dch fammi cicco, o fatnini sordo, araoro ! 

M. Maugars, himself a musician, who saw and 

heard Leonora at Rome, praises her talents gener- 
ally, and adds, that she was no coquette; that she 
sang with confidence, but with modesty ; that there 
was nothing in her manners that could be censured ; 
that the effect she produced on those who heard 
her, was owing, not only to the wonderful rapidity 
and delicacy of her execution, but to the care with 
which she gave the exact sense and proper ex- 
pression of the words she sang. He tells us, that 
on one occasion, she favored him by singing with 
her mother and her sister, each accompanying 
herself on a different instrument, (in those days 
pianos were not, and Leonora's favorite instrument 
was the Theorbo, on which she excelled.) This 
little concert so enraptured our musician, that, to 



256 LEONORA BARONI. 

use his own words, lie forgot his mortality, " et 
crut etre deja parmi les anges, jouissant des con- 
tentemens des bienheureux." 

It is no wonder that the charms and talents 
which exalted this prosaic Frenchman almost into 
a poet, should turn the heads of poets themselves. 
The verses addressed to Leonora were collected 
into a volume, and published under the title of 
- : Applausi poetici alle glorie della §ignora Leonora 
Baroni." — " Poetical eulogies to the glory of Sig- 
nora Leonora Baroni." A similar homage had 
been paid to her mother, Adriana, who reckoned 
Tasso among her panegyrists. This may seem too 
high a distinction for a species of talent, which, 
however admirable, can leave behind no durable 
monument, and therefore can claim no interest 
with posterity. Yet is it just, that those whom 
Heaven has enriched with the gift of melody, and 
who have cultivated that delicious faculty to its 
height, until with angel-skill they can suspend the 
dominion of pain in aching hearts,* — that such 
should ravish with delight a whole generation, and 
then perish from the earth, they and their memory, 
with the pleasure they bestowed, and gratitude be 
voiceless and tuneless in their praise ? The gift 
of song is fleeting as that of beauty ; but while the 
painter fixes on his canvas 

* As Milton felt when he wrote- 

And ever against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs. 



r i ONOR \ iiaicONI. 257 

The vrniic-il-tinctiirM lip, 

I.ow- hr:iv 6] I ■ . ft] ; | the morn, 

what shall immortalize the tones which " turned 
sense to soul?" whal tml poetry, which, while it 
preserves the memory of such excellence, gives 

back to the fancy sonic reflection of the delight we 
have felt, when the full tide of a divine voice is 
poured forth to the sense, like wine from an en- 
chaatsd cup, making us thrill " with music's pulse 
in every artery." Leonora Baroni had her poets, 
and her name, linked with that of Milton, shall 
never die. 

Ii IS a curious circumstance, and one but little 
consonant with the popular idea of Milton's aus- 
terity, that the object of his poetical homage, and 
even of his serious admiration, was an Italian 
singer; but it must be remembered, that Milton, 
the son of an accomplished musician,* was, by 
nature and education, peculiarly susceptible to the 
power of sweet sounds. Next to poetry, music 
was with him a passion ; and the profession of a 
singer in those days, when the art was in its second 

• Milton alludes to his father's talent for music : 

Thyself 
Art skilful to associate verse with airs 
Harmonious, and to give the human voice 
A thousand modulations. — 

Such distribution of himself to ua 
Was Phoebus' choice ; thou hast thy gift, and I 
Mine aLso; and between, us we receive. 
Father and Son. th* (thole inspiring God ! 

Ad Pa ran 

17 



S58 LEONORA BARONI. 

infancy, was more highly estimated, in proportion 
as excellence was more rare and less publicly ex- 
hibited. I cannot find that either Leonora Baroni, 
or her mother Adriana, ever appeared on a stage ; 
yet their celebrity had spread from one end of 
Italy to the other. Milton joined the crowd of 
Leonora's votaries at Rome, and has expressed his 
enthusiastic admiration, not only in verse but in 
prose.* He addressed her in Latin and Italian, 
the languages she understood, and which she had 
perfectly at command. In one of his Latin poems, 
" To Leonora, singing at Rome," the allusion to 
Leonora d'Este, 

Another Leonora once inspired 

Tasso, by hopeless love to frenzy fired, &c. 

is as happy as it is beautiful, and shows the belief 
which then prevailed of the real cause of Tasso's 
lelirium. 

Two of Milton's Italian sonnets are very beau- 
tiful, and have been translated by Cowper with 
singular felicity. All his biographers agree that 
Leonora Baroni is the subject of both ; the first, 
addressed to Carlo Diodati, describes the lady, 
whose dark and foreign charms are opposed to 
those of the blonde beauties he had admired in his 
youth. 

* There Is extant a prose letter from Milton to Holstentitw 
the librarian of the Vatican, in which he accounts as one of hll 
greatest pleasures at Rome, that of having known and hear! 
Leonora 



I.ko.noka BABOHL 259 

>«)\ \ i. r. 

Dioda&I t te 'I din, con maranigUa^ &c. 
Charles,— and 1 Bay it wondering,— thcra must know 

lhat I, who once assumed :i scornful air, 
And SOOffed at Love, am fallen Into his snare; 
(Full ninny an upright man has fallen 
Vet think me not thus dazzled by the flow 
Of golden locks, or damask rose; rnoro rare 
The heartfelt beauties of my foreign fair! 
A mien majestic, with dark brows, that show 
The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind,— 
Words exquisite, of idioms more than one; 
And song, whose fascinating power might bind, 
And from her sphere draw down the lab'ring moon; 
With snch fire-darting eyes, that should I (id 
Mine ears with wax, she would enchant me still! 

In this translation, though elegant and faithful 
the lines, 

A mien majestic, with dark brows, that show 
The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind, 

have much diluted the energy of Milton's 

Portamenti alti onesti, e nelle ciglia 
Quel sereno fulgor d'amabil nero. 

^ In the other sonnet, addressed to Leonora, he 
gives, with all the simplicity of conscious worth, 
this lofty description of himself, and of his claims 
#o her preference. 

SONNET. 
Giovane, piano, e semplicelto amante, &c. 
Enamor'd, artless, young, on foreign ground, 
Uncertain whether from myself to fly, 



260 LEONORA BARONI. 

To thee, dear lady, with an humble sign, 
Let me devote my heart, which I have found, 
By certain proofs not few, intrepid, sound, 
Good, and addicted to conceptions high: 
When tempests shake the world, and fire the sky 
It rests in adamant, self- wrapt around, 
As safe from envy and from outrage rude, 
From hopes and fears that vulgar minds abuse, 
As fond of genius and fixed solitude, 
Of the resounding lyre and every muse 
Weak you will find it in one only part, 
Now pierc'd by Love's immedicable dart. 



Milton was three times married. The relations 
of his first wife, (Mary Powell,) who were violent 
Royalists, and ashamed or afraid of their connection 
with a republican, persuaded her to leave him. 
She absolutely forsook her husband for nearly 
three years, and resided with her family at Oxford, 
when that city was the head-quarters of the King's 
farty. "I have so much charity for her," says 
Aubrey, " that she might not wrong his bed ; but 
what man (especially contemplative,) would like to 
have a young wife environed and stormed by the 
eons of Mars, and those of the ennemie partie ? " 

Milton, though a suspicion of the nature hinted 
at by Aubrey never rose in his mind, was justly 
incensed at this dereliction. He was on the point 
>»f divorcing this contumacious bride, and had 
already made choice of another* to succeed her 

* Miss Davies. " The lather (says Hayley) seems to haye bee» 
% eonvert to Milton's arguments; but the lady had scruple; 



LB02TOJI v B IBONI. 261 

■/hen she llnvw henelf, impromptu, at liis feet an;) 

implored iris forgiveness. He forgave her: ami 
when i In* republican party triumphed, tint family 

who had bo cruelly wronged him found a refuge in 
liis house. This woman embittered his life for 

fourteen or fifteen years. 

A remembrance of the reconciliation with hia 

wife, ami of his own feelings on that occasion, are 
Mid to have Suggested to Milton's mind the beauti- 
ful scene between Adam and Eve, in the tenth 
book of the Paradise Lost. 

She ended weeping? and her lowly plight, 
ImmovahV, till peace obtained for faults 
Acknowledged and deplored, in Adam wrought 
Commiseration' soon Ids heart relented 
Tow'rds her, Ids life so late and solo delight 
Now at his feet submissive in distress, 
Creature so fair, his reconcilement seeking; 
As one disarmed, his anger all he lost, &0. 

Milton's second and most beloved wife (Cathe- 
rine Woodcock) died in childbed, within a year 
after their marriage. He honored her memory 
with what Johnson (out upon him 1) calls a, poor 
sonnet; it is the one be<'innino- 

o o 

She possessed (according to Phillips) both wit and beauty. A 
novelist could hardly Imagine circumstances more singulariy 
4istressin£ to sensibility than the situation of the poet, if, aa we 
may reasonably conjecture, be was deeply enamored of this lady; 
f her father was inclined to accept him as a son-in-law, and the 
*ject of his love had no inclination to reject his suit, but wbxt 
troee from a dread of his being indissolubly united to anothar » 
tye o/ Milton, p. 90. 



862 LEONORA BARONI. 

Me thought I saw my late espoused saint 
Brought to me, like Alcestis from the grave; 

which, in its solemn and tender strain of feeling 
and modulated harmony, reminds us of Dante. 
He never ceased to lament her, and to cherish her 
memory with a fond regret : — she must have been 
full in his heart and mind when he wrote those 
touching lines in the Paradise Lost — 

How can I live without thee ? how forego 
Thy sweet converse and love so dearly joined, 
To live again in these wild woods forlorn? 
Should God create another Eve, and I 
Another rib afford, yet loss of thee 
Would never from my heart ! 

After her death, — blind, disconsolate, and help- 
less — he was abandoned to petty wrongs and 
domestic discord ; and suffered from the disobedi- 
ence and unkindness of his two elder daughters, 
like another Lear. His youngest daughter, Debo- 
rah, was the only one who acted as his amanuensis, 
and she always spoke of him with extreme affec- 
tion ; — on being suddenly shown his picture, twenty 
years after his death, she burst into tears. 

These three daughters were grown up, and the 
youngest about fifteen, when Milton married his 
third wife, Elizabeth Minshull. She was a gentle, 
kind-hearted woman, without pretensions of anj 
kind, who watched over his declining years with 
affectionate care. One biographer has not scrupled 
40 assert, that to her, — or rather to her tender 



OABBWfl < kua. 263 

reverence for his studious habits, and to the peace 
and comfort she brought to his heart a&d home, — 
we owe the Paradise Lost: it' brae, what a debt 
immense of endless gratitude ifl due to the memory 

of this unobtrusive and amiable woman ! 



CHAPTER XX. 

CARKW's CELIA. — LUCY SACHEVEREL. 

From the reign of Charles the First may be 
dated that revolution in the spirit and form of our 
lyric poetry, which led to its subsequent degrada- 
tion. The first Italian school of poetry, to which 
we owed our Surreys, our Spensers, and our Mil- 
ton's, had now declined. The high contemplative 
tone of passion, the magnanimous and chivalrous 
homage paid to women, gradually gave way before 
the French taste and French gallantry, introduced, 
or at least encouraged and rendered fashionable, 
by Henrietta Maria and her gay household. The 
muse of amatory poetry (I presume there is such a 
Muse, though I know not to which of the Nine the 
title properly applies) no longer walked the earth 
jtar-erowned and vestal-robed, " col dir pien d' 
vjitelletti, dolci ed alt\," — M with love upon her lips, 
ind looks commercing with the skies , " — she suited 



864 CAREW'S CELIA. 

her garb to the fashion of the times, and tripped 
along in guise of an Arcadian princess, half regal, 
half pastoral, trailing a sheep-hook crowned with 
flowers, and sparkling with foreign ornaments, 

Pale glistening pearls and rainbow-colored gems. 

Then in the " brisk and giddy-paced times" of 
Charles the Second, she flaunted an airy coquette, 
or an unblushing courtesan, (" unveiled her eyes, 
— unclasped her zone ; " ) and when these sinful 
doings were banished, she took the hue of the new 
morals — new fashions — new manners, — and we 
find her a court prude, swimming in a hoop and 
red-heeled shoes, " conscious of the rich brocade," 
and ogling behind her fan : or else in the opposite 
extreme, like a tergere in a French ballet, stuck 
over with sentimental common-places and artificial 
flowers. 

This, in general terms, was the progress of the 
lyric muse, from the poets of Queen Elizabeth's 
days down to the wits of Queen Anne's. Of course, 
there are modifications and exceptions, which will 
suggest themselves to the poetical reader ; but it 
does not enter into the plan of this sketch to treat 
matters thus critically and profoundly. To return 
then to the days of Charles the First. 

It must be confessed that the union of Italian 
sentiment and imagination with French vivacity 
and gallantry, was, in the commencement, exceed* 
mgly graceful, before all poetry was lost in wit 
Und gallantry sunk into licentiousness. 



CAKI.W'S CKMA. 263 

Carew, one of the first who distinguished hfrn> 
iclf in this style, has been most unaccountably 
eclipsed by the reputation of Waller, and deserved 
better than to have bad his name bitched into line 
between Sprat and SecQey ; 

Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and b hundred more.* 

As an amatory poet, he le far superior to Waller; 
I"' had equal smoothness and fancy, and much 
more variety, tenderness, and earnestness; If his 
bve was tees ambitiously, and even less honorably 
placed, ii was, at Least, more deep seated, and far 
more fervent The real name of the lady he has 
celebrated under the poetical appellation of Celia, 

is not known— it is only certain that she was no 
"fabled &»,*»— and that his love was repaid with 
falsehood. 

Hard fate! to have been once possessed 

A victor of a heart, 
Achieved with labor and unrest, 

And then forced to depart! 

From the irregular habits of Carew, it is possi- 
ble he might have set the example of inconstancy 
and yet this is hut a poor excuse for her. 

Carew spent his lite in the Court of Charles the 
First, who admired and loved him for his wit and 
•miable manners, though he reproved his liber tin- 
*ge. In the midst of that dissipation, which has 
Dolluted some of his poems, he was full of high 

* Pope. 



266 CAREW'S CELIA. 

poetic feeling, and a truly generous lovor: for 
even while he woos his fair one in the most soul* 
moving terms of flowery adulation and tender en- 
treaty, he puts her on her guard against his own 
arts, and thus sweetly pleads against himself ; 

Bather let the lover pine, 

Than his pale cheek should assign 

A perpetual blush to thine ! 

And his admiration of female chastity is else- 
where frequently, as well as forcibly expressed.— 
With all his elegance and tenderness, Carew ia 
never feeble ; and in his laments there is nothing 
whining or unmanly. After lavishing at the feet 
of his mistress the most passionate devotion, ai*4 
the most exquisite flattery, hear him rebuke h<*» 
pride with all the spirit of an offended poet ! 

Know, Celia ! since thou art so proud, 
'Twas I that gave thee thy renown; 

Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd 
Of common beauties, lived unknown, 

Had not my verse exhaled thy name, 

And with it impt the 'wings of fame. 

That killing power is none of thine, 

I gave it to thy voice and eyes, 
Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine. 

Thou art my star — shin'st in my skies; 
Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere 
Light'ning on him, who fixed thee there. 

The identity of his Celia is now lost m a namt 
—and she deserves it : perhaps had she appre 



CAiu;\v S (KI.ia. 267 

■iated the love she inspired, and been true to that 
die professed, she might have won her elegant 

lo\er back tO virtue, and wreathed her fame 

with his forever. Disappointed in the object of 

his idolatry, Carew plunged madly into pleasure, 
and thus hastened his end. Be died, as Clarendon 

tells US, with u deep remorse for his past excesses, 
and every manifestation of Christianity his best 
friends could desire." 

Besides bis Celia, Carew has celebrated several 
other ladies of the Court, and particularly Lady 
Mary Villars; the Countess of Anglesea; Lady 
Carlisle, the theme of all the poets of her age, and 
her lovely daughter, Lady Anne Hay, on whom 
he wrote an elegy, which begins with some lines 
never surpassed in harmony and tenderness. 

I heard the virgin's sigh ! I saw the sleek 

And poliah'd courtier channel his fresh cheek 

With real tears; the new betrothed maid 

Smil'd not that day; the graver senate laid 

Their business by; of all the courtly throng 

Grief seal'd the heart, and silence bound the tongue! 

***** 
We will not bathe thy corpse with a forc'd tear, 
Nor shall thy train borrow the blacks they wear; 
Such vulgar spice and gums embalm not thee, 
That art the theme of Truth, not Poetry. 

Here Carew has fallen into the vulgar error, that 
poetry and fiction are synonymous. 
Lady Anne Wentworth* daughter of the first 

• The only daughter of this Lady Anne Wentworth, married 
Ar V7. Noel, and was the aooestreaa of Lady Byrou, the widow 
\X the uoet. 



568 CAEEW'S CELIA. 

Earl of Cleveland, who, after making terrible 
havoc in the heart of the Lord Chief Justice 
Finch, married Lord Lovelace, is another of 
Carew's fair heroines. For her marriage he wrote 
the epithalamium, 

Break not the slumbers of the bride, &c. 

As Carew is not a popular poet, nor often found 
m a lady's library, I add a few extracts of peculiar 
Deauty. 

TO CELIA. 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 
When June is past, the fading rose ; 
For in your beauties' orient deep 
Those flowers as in their causes sleep 

Ask me no more, whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day; 
For in pure love, Heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more, whither doth haste 
The nightingale, when May is past; 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more, where those stars ligUS 
That downwards fall in dead of night; 
For in your eyes they sit — and there 
Fix'd become as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more, if east or west, 
The phoenix builds her spicy nest; 



OAREVrfl < i r-iA. 269 

For unto you at last she fllee, 
And in your fragranl bosom dies. 



Ladies, fly from L0V8 v fl smooth tale, 
Oatlis Bteep'd iii tearl do Oft prevail; 

Grief is Lofeotious, and the air, 
[nflam'd with sighs, will blast the fair* 

Then stop your ean when lovers cry, 
Lest yourself weep, when no soft eye 
Shall with a sorrowing tear repay 
The pity which you cast away. 



And when thou breath' st, the winds are ready straight 
To filch it from thee; and do therefore wait 
Close at thy lips, and matching it from thence, 
Bear it to heaven, where 'tis Jove's frankincense. 
Fair goddess, since thy feature makes thee one, 
Yet be not such for these respects alone; 
But as you are divine in outward view, 
So be within as fair, as good, as true. 



Hark ! how the bashful mora in vain 

Courts the amorous marigold 
With sighing blasts and weeping vain; 

Yet she refuses to unfold. 
But when the planet of the day 
Approacheth with his powerful ray, 
Then she spreads, then she receives, 
His wanner beams into her virgin leavet- 

So shalt thou thrive in love, fond boy; 

if thy tears and sighs discover 
Thy grief, thou never shalt enjoy 

'Hie just reward of a bold lover: 



J 70 LUCY SACHEVEREL. 

But when with moving accents thou 
Shall constant faith and service vow. 
Thy Celia shall receive those charms 
With open ears, and with unfolded arms. 
***** 

The gallant and accomplished Colonel Lorelaco 
was, I believe, a relation of the Lord Lovelace who 
married Lady Anne Wentworth, and the friend 
and contemporary of Carew. His fate and history 
would form the groundwork of a romance ; and in 
his person and character he was formed to be the 
hero of one. He was as fearlessly brave as a 
knight-errant; so handsome in person, that he 
could not appear without inspiring admiration ; a 
polished courtier ; an elegant scholar ; and to 
crown all, a lover and a poet. He wrote a volume 
of poems, dedicated to the praises of Lucy Sache- 
verel, with whom he had exchanged vows of ever- 
lasting love. Her poetical appellation, according 
to the affected taste of the day, was Lucasta. When 
the civil wars broke out, Lovelace devoted his life 
and fortunes to the service of the Bang ; and on 
joining the army, he wrote that beautiful song to 
his mistress, which has been so often quoted, — 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind. 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase, 
The first foe in the field; 



LUCY - win \ i i:n. 371 

And with a itronger faith embrace 
A sword, B horse, a shiold. 

Yet thli Inoonstanoy Lb snoh 
Aj yon too shall adore; 

I could not lovo tht'O, dear! so much, 
Lov'd I not honor moro. 

The rest of his life was a series of the most cruel 
misfortunes. He was imprisoned on account of 
(lis enthusiastio and chivalrous loyalty; but no 
dungeon could subdue bis buoyant spirit His song 
M to Althea from Prison," is full of grace and ani- 
mation, vml breathes the very soul of love and 
honor. 

When Love, with unconfined wings, 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates; 

When I lie tangled in her hair, 

And fettered to her eye, 
The birds that wanton in the air, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make 

Nor iron bars a cage; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for a hermitage. 

If I have freedom in my love, 

Aiid in my soul am free, — 
Angels alone that soar above 

Enjoy such liberty. 

Lovelace afterwards commanded a regiment at 



872 LUCY SACHEVEREL. 

the siege of Dunkirk, where he was severely, and, 
as it was supposed, mortally wounded. False tid- 
ings of his death were brought to England ; and 
when he returned, he found his Lucy (" O most 
wicked haste ! ") married to another ; it was a blow 
he never recovered. He had spent nearly his 
whole patrimony in the King's service, and now 
became utterly reckless. After wandering about 
London in obscurity and penury, dissipating his 
scanty resources in riot with his brother cavaliers, 
and in drinking the health of the exiled King and 
confusion to Cromwell, this idol of women and envy 
of men, — the beautiful, brave, high-born, and ac- 
complished Lovelace, died miserably in a little lodg- 
ing in Shoe Lane. He was only in his thirty- 
ninth year. 

The mother of Lucy Sacheverel was Lucy, 
daughter of Sir Henry Hastings, ancestor to the 
present Marquis of Hastings. How could she so 
belie her noble blood ? I would excuse her were it 
possible, for she must have been a fine creature to 
have inspired and appreciated such a sentiment as 
that contained in the first song : but acts cry aloud 
against her. Her plighted hand was not trans- 
ferred to another, when time had sanctified and 
mellowed regret ; but with a cruel and unfeminine 
precipitancy. Since then her lover has bequeathed 
her name to immortality, he is sufficiently avenged. 
Let her stand forth condemned and scorned for- 
ever, as faithless, heartless — light as air, false a* 
Water, and rash as fire. — I abjure her. 



SACHARISSA. 171 

CHAPTER XXI. 

WALLER'S SACHARISSA. 

The courtly Waller, like the lady in the Maids' 
Tragedy, loved with his ambition,— not with his 
eyes; still less with his heart. A critic, in desig- 
nating the poets of that time, says truly that 
" Waller still lives in Sacharissa:" he lives "in her 
name more than ahe docs in his poetry; he gave that 

name a charm and a celebrity which has survived 

the admiration his verses inspired, and which has 
assisted to preserve them and himself from oblivion. 
If Sacharissa had not been a real and an interest- 
ing object, Waller's poetical praises had .lied with 
her, and she with them. He wants earnestness; 
his lines were not inspired by love, and they give 
" no echo to the seat where love is throned." °Jn- 
Btead of passion and poetry, we have gallantry and 
flattery ; gallantry, which was beneath the dignity 
of its object; and flattery, which was yet more su- 
perfluous—it was painting the lily and throwing 
perfume on the violet. 

Waller's Sacharissa was the Lady Dorothea 
Sydney, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Lei- 
cester, and born in 1G20. At Cm time he thought 
fit to make her the object of his homage she way 
about eighteen, beautiful, accomplished^ and ad- 
mired. Waller was handsome, rich, a wit, and five- 
18 



J74 SACHARISSA 

and twenty. He had ever an excellent opinion ol 
himself, and a prudent care of his worldly interests. 
He was a great poet, in days when Spenser was 
forgotten, Milton neglected, and Pope unborn. 
He began by addressing to her the lines on her 
picture. 

Such was Philoclea and such Doras' flame,* 

Then we have the poems written at Penshurst, — in 
this strain, — 

Ye lofty beeches ! tell this matchless dame, 

That if together ye fed all one flame, 

It could not equalize the hundredth part 

Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart, &c. 

The lady was content to be the theme of a fash 
ionable poet : but when he presumed farther, she 
crushed all hopes with the most undisguised aver- 
sion and disdain : thereupon he rails, — thus, — 

To thee a wild and cruel soul is given, 

More deaf than trees, and prouder than the heaven; 

Love's foe profest ! why dost thou falsely feign 

Thyself a Sydney ? From which noble strain 

He sprang that could so far exalt the name 

Of love, and warm a nation with his flame, f 

His mortified vanity turned for consolation to 
Amoret, (Lady Sophia Murray,) the intimate com- 
panion of Sacharissa. He describes the friendship 
between these two beautiful girls very gracefully. 

* Alluding to the two heroines of Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia 
Bacharissa was the grandniece of that preux chevalier, and b~uc» 
ttie frequent allusions to his name and fame. 

t Alluding to his Philip Sydney. 



BACHABI88A. 215 

Tell me, lovely, loving pair! 

Why BO kin. I, and so sovore? 

Why bo oareleas of our care 
Only to yourselves bo dear} 

* * 

Not the silver doves that fly 

Yoked to Cytherea'a oar; 

Not tho rings that lift bo high, 

And convey her son so far, 

Are so lovely, sweet and fair, 

Or do more ennoble love, 
Are BO choicely matched a pair, 

Or with more consent do move. 

^ And they are very beautifully contrasted n the 
ines to Amoret — 

If sweet Amoret complains, 
I have sense of all her pains; 
But for Sacharissa, I 
Do not only grieve, but die! 

* * * 

'Tis amazement more than love, 
Which her radiant eyes do move 
If less splendor wait on thine, 
Yet they so benignly shine, 
I would turn my dazzled sight 
To behold their milder light 

* * * 
Amoret ! as sweet and good 
As the most delicious food, 
Which but tasted does impart 
Life and gladness to the heart 
Sacharissa's beauty's wine, 
Which to madness doth incline. 



878 SACHARISSA. 

Such a liquor as no brain 
That is mortal, can sustain. 

But Lady Sophia, though of a softer disposition, 
find not carrying in her mild eyes the scornful and 
destructive light which sparkled in those of Sacha* 
rissa, was not to be "be-rhymed" into love any 
more than her fair friend. She applauded, but she 
repelled : she smiled, but she was cold. Waller 
consoled himself by marrying a city widow, worth 
thirty thousand pounds. 

The truth is, that with all his wit and his ele- 
gance of fancy, of which there are some inimitable 
examples, — as the application of the story of 
Daphne, and of the fable of the wounded eagle , 
the lines on Sacharissa's girdle ; the graceful little 
Bong, " Go, lovely Rose," to which I need only 
allude, and many others, — Waller has failed in 
convincing us of his sincerity. As Rosalind says, 
" Cupid might have clapped him on the shoulder, 
but we could warrant him heart whole." All along 
our sympathy is rather with the proud beauty, than 
with the irritable self-complacent poet. Sacharissa 
might have been proud, but she was not arrogant 
her manners were gentle and retiring ; and her 
disposition rather led her to shun than to seek pub» 
licity and admiration. 

Such cheerful modesty, such humble state, 
Moves certain love, but with as doubtful fate.; 
As when beyond our greedy reach, we see 
Inviting fruit on too sublime a tiee.* 

* Lines on her picture. 



B A CII A R] 27 7 

The address to Sa de-chambr^ 

**ginning, •• Fair fellow-servant," is qoI to be com- 
pared with Tasso'e ode to the ConnteM of Bcandi- 
»no's maid, bat contains some most elegant line* 

* "M the SOfl B68 tOO kllOW, W b mind 

May be to pity, or to love Inclined: 

In same well-chosen hour supply his fear. 

W 0086 hopeless love durst never tempt the ear 

Of that stern goddess; you, her priest, deolare 
What offerings may propitiate the fair: 

Kich orient pearl, bright stones that ne'er decay, 

Or polished lines, that longer last than they. 

* * • * # 

Bat since her eyes, her teeth, her lip excels 
All that is found in mines or fishes' shells, 
Her nobler part as far exceeding these, 
None but immortal gifts her mind should please. 

These lines impress us with the image of a very 
imperious and disdainful beauty; yet such was not 
the character of Sacharissa's person or mind.* Nor 
is it necessary to imagine her such, to account for 
her rejection of Waller, and her indifference to 
his flattery. There was a meanness about the man: 
he wanted not birth alone, but all the high and gen- 
erous qualities which must have been required to 
recommend him to a woman, who, with the blood 
and the pride of the Sydneys, inherited their large 
heart and noble spirit. We are not surprised when 
»he turned from the poe' fogi vu her hand to Henry 

* Sacharissa, the poetical name Wal'ei himself gave her, sig 
fetfiee sweetness. 



278 SACHARISSA. 

Spencer, Earl of Sunderland, one of the most in- 
teresting and heroic characters of that tilde. He 
was then only nineteen, and she was about the same 
age. This marriage was celebrated with great 
splendor at Penshurst, July 30, 1639. 
Waller, who had professed that his hope 

Should ne'er rise higher 
Than for a pardon that he dared admire, 

pressed forward with his congratulations in vers« 
and prose, and wrote the following letter, full of 
pleasant imprecations, to Lady Lucy Sydney, the. 
younger sister of Sacharissa. It will be allowed 
that it argues more wit and good-nature than love 
or sorrow ; and that he was resolved that the willow 
should sit as gracefully and lightly on his brow, as 
the myrtle or the bays. 

" To my Lady Lucy Sydney, on the marriage of my 
Lady Dorothea, her sister." 

" Madam, — In this common joy, at Penshurst, I 
know none to whom complaints may come less un- 
seasonable than to your Ladyship, — the loss of a bed- 
FbIIow being almost equal to that of a mistress ; and 
therefore you ought, at least, to pardon, if you con- 
sent not to the imprecations of the deserted, which 
Just Heaven, no doubt, will hear. 

" May my Lady Dorothea, if we may yet call her 
BO, suffer as much, and have the like passion, for 
this young Lord, whom she has preferred to the 
test of mankind, as others have had for her ; ant, 



BAOB \i:i--a. 279 

Hay this love, before the year come about, make 
per taste of the first curse imposed ou womankind 
— -tin* pains of becoming a mother. May her first- 
born be none of her own BOX, DOT BO like her, but 

that be niav resemble her Lord as much as herself 
"May she, that always affected silence and re- 
tiredness, have the house filled with the noise ami 
number of her children, and hereafter of her 
grandchildren, and then may she arrive at that 

great curse, BO much declined by fair ladies, — old 
age* May she live to be very old, and yet seem 
young — be told so by her glass — and have; no aches 
to inform her of the truth: and when she shall 
appear to be mortal, may her Lord not mourn for 
her, but go band-in-hand with her to that place, 
where, we are told, there is neither marrying nor 
giving in marriage, that, being there divorced, we 
may all have an equal interest in her again. My 
revenge being immortal, I wish that all this may 
also befall their posterity to the world's end and 
afterwards. 

" To you, Madam, I wish all good things, and 
that tliis loss may, in good time, be happily supplied 
with a more eonstant bed-fellow of the other sex. 

" Madam, I humbly kiss your hands, and beg 
jjardon for this trouble from ycur Ladyship's most 
humble servant, E. Waller." 

Lady Sunderland had bp2n married about three 
years : she and her youthful husband lived in the 
tendwest union, and she was already the happy 



280 SACHARISSA. 

mother of two fair infants, a son and a daughter,—- 
when the civil wars broke out, and Lord Sunder- 
land followed the King to the field. In the Sydney 
papers- are some beautiful letters to his wife, writ- 
ten from the camp before Oxford. The last of 
these, which is in a strain of playful and affection- 
ate gayety, thus concludes, — " Pray bless Poppet 
for me ! * and tell her I would have wrote to her, 
but that, upon mature deliberation, I found it un- 
civil to return an answer to a lady in another char- 
acter than her own, which I am not yet learned 
enough to do. — I beseech you to present his service 
to my Lady,f who is most passionately and perfectly 
yours, &c. Sunderland." 

Three days afterwards this tender and gallant 
heart had ceased to beat; he was killed in the 
battle of Newbury, at the age of three-and-twenty. 
His unhappy wife, on hearing the news of his 
death, was prematurely taken ill, and delivered 
of an infant, which died almost immediately after 
its birth. She recovered, however, from a danger- 
ous and protracted illness, through the affectionate 
and unceasing attentions of her mother, Lady 
Leicester, who never quitted her fcr several 
months. Her father wrote her a letter of condo- 
lence, which would serve as a model for all letters 

* His infant daughter, then ahout two years old, afterwards 
Marchioness of Halifax. 

t The Countess's mother, Lady Leicester, who was then with 
ler at Althorpe. 



BAOHARIMJ 2H1 

»n similar occasions, M l know," he Bays, "thai 
it la to no purpose to advise yon not to grieve; 

that M not inv intention ; for sn<-li a l<ws M vo'irs, 

cannot l.o received indifferently by a Data 
tender and sensible as yours," &c. After touching 
lightly and delicately on the obvious sources of 
consolation, he reminds her, that her duty to the 
dead requires her to Ik- careful of herself, and not 
hazard her very existence! by the indulgence of 

grief. " You offend him yon loved, if VO u hurt 

that person whom he loved; remember how aj>- 
prehensive he was of your danger, how grieved 

for any thing that troubled you! I know you 
lived happily together, so as nobody hut yourself 

could measure the contentment of it. I rejoiced 

at it, and did thank God for making me one of the 
means to procure it for you," &c * 

Those who have known deep sorrow, and felt 
what it is to shrink with shattered nerves and a 
wounded spirit from the busy hand of consolation, 
fretting where it cannot heal, will appreciate such 
a letter as this. 

Lady Sunderland, on her recovery, retired 
from the world, and centering all her affections in 
her children, >eemed to live only for them. She 
resided, after her widowhood, at Althorpe, where 
she occupied herself with improving the house and 
gardens. The fine hah and staircase of that noble 
»eat, which are deservedly admired for their archi- 

• Sydney's Memorials, vol. U. p. 271 



282 SACHARISSA. 

teetural beauty, were planned and erected by her 
After the lapse of about thirteen years, her father, 
Lord Leicester, prevailed- on her to choose one 
from among the numerous suitors who sought her 
hand ; he dreaded, lest on his death, she should be 
left unprotected, with her infant children, in those 
evil times ; and she married, in obedience to his 
wish, Sir Robert Smythe, of Sutton, who was her 
second cousin, and had long been attached to her. 
She lived to see her eldest son, the second Earl of 
Sunderland, a man of transcendant talents, bu+ 
versatile principles, at the head of the government, 
and had the happiness to close her eyes before he 
had abused his admirable abilities, to the vilest 
purposes of party and court intrigue. The Earl 
was appointed principal Secretary of State in 1682 ; 
his mother died in 1683. 

There is a fine portrait of Sacharissa at Blen- 
heim, of which there are many engravings. It 
must have been painted by Vandyke, shortly after 
her marriage, and before the death of her husband. 
If the withered branch, to which she is pointing, 
be supposed to allude to her widowhood, it must 
have been added afterwards, as Vandyke died in 
1641, and Lord Sunderland in 1643. In the gal- 
lery at Althorpe, there are three pictures of thia 
2elebrated woman. One represents her in a hat, 
and at the age of fifteen or sixteen, gay, girlish, 
and blooming; the second far more interesting, 
was 'painted about the time of her first marriage 
it is exceedingly sweet and lady-like. The featurei 



BAOHAKI88A. 283 

ire delicate, with redundant light brown hair, 
and eyes and eye-brows of a dasher hue; the bust 
and hands *ery exquisite; on the whole, however, 
tin- high breeding of the face and hair is more con- 
spicuous than the beauty of the person. These 

two portraits are by Vandyke; nor ought I to for- 
get to mention thai the painter himself was sup- 
posed to have indulged a respectful but ardent 
passion lor Lady Sunderland, and to have painted 
b*W portrait literally con amour* 

A third picture represents her about the time of 
her second marriage; the expression wholly changed 

— eold, faded, sad, but still sweet-looking and deli- 
cate. One might fancy her contemplating with a 

BCk heart, the portrait of Lord Sunderland, the 
lover and husband of her early youth, and that of 
her unfortunate but celebrated brother, Algernon 
Sydney ; both which hang ou the opposite side of 
the gallery. 

The present Duke of Marlborough, and the 
present Earl Spencer, are the lineal descendants 
of Waller's Sacharissa. 

One little incident, somewhat prosaic indeed, 
proves how little heart there was in Waller's poeti- 
cal attachment to this beautiful and admirable 
woman. When Lady Sunderland, after a retire- 
ment of thirty years, reappeared in the court she 
had once adorned, she met Waller at Lady Whar- 
ton's, and addressing him with a smiling courtesy 
ihe reminded him of their youthful da)-s : — u When. 
* So* State Poems, vol. iii. d. 396. 



884 SACHAKISSA. 

laid she, <l will you write such fine verses on me 
again ? " — " Madam," replied Waller, " when your 
Ladyship is young and handsome again." This 
was contemptible and coarse — the sentiment waa 
not that of a well-bred or a feeling man, far lee* 
that of a lover or a poet, — no ! 

Love is not love, 

That alters where it alteration finds. 

One would think that the sight of a woman, 
whom he had last seen in the full bloom of youth 
and glow of happiness, — who had endured, since 
they parted, such extremity of affliction as far 
more than avenged his wounded vanity, might 
have awakened some tender thoughts and called 
forth a gentler reply. When some one expressed 
surprise to Petrarch, that Laura, no longer young, 
had still power to charm and inspire him, he ans- 
wered, " Piaga per allentar d' arco non sana," — 
" The wound is not healed though the bow be un- 
bent." This was in a finer spirit. 

Something in the same character, as his reply 
to Lady Sunderland, was Waller's famous repartee, 
when Charles the Second told him that his linet 
on Oliver Cromwell were better than those writ- 
ten on his royal self. "Please your Majesty, we 
poets succeed better in fiction than in truth." 
Nothing could be more admirably apropos, more 
witty, more courtier-like; it was only false, and in 
* poor time-serving spirit. It showed as much 
meanness of soul as presence of mind. What trut 
ooet, who felt as a poet, would have said this ? 



BEAUTIKS AM) POETS. 28A 

CHAPTER XXII. 

BEAUTIES AND POETS. 

Nearly contemporary with Waller's Sacharissa 
lived several women of high rank, distinguished 
as munificent patronesses of poetry, and favorite 

t hemes of poets, for the time being. There was 
the Countess of Pembroke, celebrated by Ben 
Jonson, 

The subject of all verse, 
Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother. 

There was the famous Lucy Percy, Countess of 
Carlisle, very clever, and \cry fantastic, who 
aspired to be the Aspasia, the De Rambouillet of 
her day, and did not quite succeed. She was 
celebrated by almost all the contemporary poets, 
and even in French, by Voiture. There was 
Lucy Harrington, Countess of Bedford, who, not- 
withstanding the accusation of vanity and extrava- 
gance which has been brought against her, was an 
amiable woman, and munificently rewarded, in 
presents and pensions, the incense of the poets 
around her. I know not what her Ladyship may 
have paid for the following exquisite lines by Ben 
Jonson ; but the reader will agree with me, tLat il 
»ould not have been too much. 

ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. 

This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, 
I thought to form unto my zealous musa 



286 BEAUTIES AND POETS. 

What kind of creature I could most desire 
To honor, serve, and love ; as poets use : 

I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise, 
Of greatest blood, and jet more good than great. 

I meant the day-star should not brighter rise, 
Nor lend like influence from his ancient seat. 

I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, 

iiating that solemn vice of greatness, pride ; 
I meant each softest virtue there should meet, 

Fit in that softer bosom to reside. 
Only a learned and a manly soul 

I purpose' d her; that should, with even powers, 
The rock, the spiDdle, and the shears control 

Of destiny, and spin her own free hours. 
Such, when I meant to feign, and wished to see, 
My muse bade Bedford write, — and that was she. 

There was also the "beautiful and every way 
Excellent " Lady Anne Rich * the daughter-in-law 
of her who was so loved by Sir Philip Sydney ; 
and the memorable and magnificent — but some- 
what masculine — Anne Clifford, Countess of Cum- 
berland, Pembroke, and Dorset, who erected monu- 
ments to Spenser, Drayton, and Daniel ; and above 
them all, though living a little later, the Queen 
herself, Henrietta Maria, whose feminine caprices, 
French graces, and brilliant eyes, rendered her a 

* Daughter of the first Earl of Devonshire, of the Cavendish 
Samily. She was celebrated by Sidney Godolphin in some 7wy 
iweet lines, which contain a lovely female portrait. Waller'» 
rerses on her sudden death are remarkable for a signal instance 
»f the pathos. 

That horrid word, at once like lightning spread. 
Struck all oar ears, — the Lady Rich, is dead ! 



■ i ii - \\D POETS. 287 

rsry splendid and fruitful theme for the poeti of 

ihe time * 
There was at this time a kind of traffic between 

llich beauties and pOOT ports. The ladies who, in 
earlier ages, were proud in proportion to the 
quantity of blood spilt in honor of their charms, 
were now seized witli a passion for being be- 
rhymed. Surrey, and his (Jeraldine, began this 
taste in England by introducing the school of 
Petrarch: and Sir Philip Sydney had entreated 
women to listen to those poets who promised them 
immortality, — " For thus doing, ye shall be most 
fair, mOff wi-;e, mod rich, most every thing ! — ye 
shall dwell upon superlatives:"! and women be- 
lieved accordingly. In spite of the satirist, I do 
maintain, that the love of praise and the love of 
pleading are paramount in our sex, both to the love 
of pleasure and the love of sway. 

This eonneetion between the high-born beauties 
and the poets was at first delightful, and honorable 
to both ; but in time it became degraded and 
abused. The fees paid for dedications, odes, and 
sonnets, were any thing but sentimental; — can we 
wonder if, under such circumstances, the profession 
of a poet " was connected with personal abase- 
ment, which made it disreputable ?" J or that 
women, while they required the tribute, desoised 
those who paid it. — and were paid for it ? — not in 

• See Waller, Carew, D'Avenant : the latter has paid her son* 
exquisite compliments. 

t Sir Philip Sydney's Works. " Defence of Poesie " 

♦ Scott's LL c e of Dryden, p. 89. 



288 BEAUTIES AND POETS. 

sweet looks, soft smiles, and kind wishes, but with 
silver and gold, a cover at her ladyship's table 
" below the salt," or a bottle of sack from my 
lord's cellar. It followed, as a thing of course, 
that our amatory and lyric poetry declined, and 
instead of the genuine rapture of tenderness, the 
glow of imagination, and all " the purple light of 
love," we have too often only a heap of glittering 
and empty compliment and metaphysical conceits 
— It was a miserable state of things. 

It must be confessed that the aspiring loves of 
some of our poets have not proved auspicious even 
when successful. Dryden married Lady Elizabeth 
Howard, the daughter of the Earl of Berkshire : 
but not " all the blood of all the Howards " could 
make her either wise or amiable : he had better 
have married a milkmaid. She was weak in intel- 
lect, and violent in temper. Sir Walter Scott 
observes, very feelingly, that " The wife of one 
who is to gain his livelihood by poetry, or by any 
labor (if any there be) equally exhausting, must 
either have taste enough to relish her husband's 
performances, or good-nature sufficient to pardon 
hi3 infirmities." It was Dryden's misfortune, that 
Lady Elizabeth had neither one nor the other. 

Of all our really great poets, Dryden is the one 
least indebted to woman, and to whom, in return, 
women are least indebted : he is almost devoid of 
sentiment in the true meaning of the word. — " His 
vdea of the female character was low ; " his homage 
to beauty was not of that kind which beauty should 



BEAUTIES \\i. poi r8. 28S 

to proud to iv.riv,..* When he attempted the 
praise of women, \i was in a strain of fulsome, 
farfetched, labored adulation, which betrayed his 
insincerity ; bul bis genins was al home when we 
wen- the subject of licentious tales and coarse 
latire. 

It was through this Inherent want of refinement 
and tnu> respect for our sex, that he deformed 
Boccaccio's lovely tale of Gismunda; and as the 
Italian novelist has sins enough of his own to 
answer tor, Dryden might have left him the beauties 
of this tender story, nnsullied by the profane coarse. 
ness of his own taste. In his tragedies, his heroines 

On stilts, and his draw-cansir heroes, whine, rant, 
strut and rage, and tearpassion to tatters— to very 

rags; bul love, rach as it exists in gentle, pure, 

unselfish bosoms— love, such as itglowfi m the page* 

ofShakspeare and Spenser, Petrarch and Tasso,— 

such love 

As doth become mortality 

Glancing :it heaven, 

ho could not imagine or appreciate, for less express 
or describe. Be could portray a Cleopatra; but 
he could not conceive a Juliet. His ideas of our 
sex seem to have been formed from a proflig 
actress.! and a silly, wayward, provoking wife; 
and we have avenged ourselves,— for Dryden is 

* With the exception of the dedication of his Palamon and 
Axcite, to the young and beautiful Dnehese of Ormonde. (Lady 
Anne Somerset, daughter of the i)uke of Beaufort, 
t Mrs. Reeves, his mistress ; «he afterwards became a nun 
19 



WO BEAUTIES AND POETS. 

not the poet of women ; and, of all our English 
classics, is the least honored in a lady's library. 

Dryden was the original of the famous repartee 
to be found, I believe, in every jest book: shortly 
after his marriage, Lady Elizabeth, being rather 
annoyed at her husband's very studious habits, 
wished herself a hook, that she might have a little 
more of his attention — " Yes, my dear," replied 
Dryden, " an almanac." — " Why an almanac ? " 
asked the wife innocently. — "Because then, my 
dear, I should change you once a year." The 
laugh, of course, is on the side of* the wit ; but 
Lady Elizabeth was a young spoiled beauty of 
rank, married to a man she loved ; and her wish, 
methinks, was very feminine and natural : if it waa 
spoken with petulance and bitterness, it deserved 
the repartee ; if with tenderness and playfulness, 
the wit of the reply can scarcely excuse its ill- 
nature. 

Addison married the Countess of Warwick. 
Poor man ! I believe his patrician bride did every 
thing but beat him. His courtship had been long, 
timid, and anxious; and at length, the lady was 
persuaded to marry him, on terms much like those 
on which a Turkish Princess is espoused, to when? 
the Sultan is reported to pronounce, " Daughter, I 
give thee this man to be thy slave."* They were 
only three years married, and those were years of 
bitterness. 

Young, the author of the Night Thought* 
* Johnson's Life of Addison. 



OOSJUQ \r. POETBT. 291 

barned Lady EUiabeti Lee, fee daughter of the 
Bar] of Litchfield, .and grand-daughter of die too 
fauna, or more properly, infamous Ducheaa of 
Cleveland:— Hie marriage was not a nappy one. 
J flunk, however, in the leal two instance*, the 
ladies were ool entirely to blame. 
But these, it will be aaid, are the wives of poeta, 

not the loves of the poets; and the phrases are 
not aynonymonsr-aii eontwre. This is a question 
to he asked and examined; and I pro.eed to ex- 
amine it accordingly. Hut as I am about to take 
the field on new ground, it will require a new 
chapter. 

— hX+« — 

CHAPTER XXffl. 

CONJUGAL POETRY. 

If it be generally true, that love, to be poetical, 
must be wreathed with the willow and the cypress, 
as well as the laurel and the myrtle— still it is not 
always true. It is not, happily, a necessary con- 
dition, that a passion, to be constant, must be un- 
fortunate ; that faithful lovers must needs be 
wretched; that conjugal tenderness and "domestic 
doings " are ever dull and invariably prosaic. The 
witty invectives of some of our poets, whose do- 
mestic misery stung hem into satirists, and bias- 



292 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

pheniers of a happiness denied to them, an? 
familiar in the memory — ready on the lips of 
common-place scoffers. But of matrimonial poetics, 
in a far different style, we have instance sufficient 
to put to shame such heartless raillery ; that there 
are not more, is owing to the reason which Klop- 
stock has given, when writing of his angelic Meta. 
" A man," said he, " should speak of his wife as 
seldom and with as much modesty as of himself." 

A woman is not under the same restraint in 
speaking of her husband ; and this distinction 
arises from the relative position of the two sexes. 
It is a species of vain-glory to boast of a possession , 
but we may exult, unreproved, in the virtues of 
him who disposes of our fate. Our inferiority has 
here given to us, as women, so high and dear a 
privilege, that it is a pity we have been so seldom 
called on to exert it. 

The first instance of conjugal poetry which 
occurs to me, will perhaps startle the female reader 
for it is no other than the gallant Ovid himself. 
One of the epistles, written during his banishment 
to Pontus, is addressed to his wife Perilla, and very 
tenderly alludes to their mutual affection, and to the 
grief she must have suffered during his absence. 

And thou, whom young I left when leaving Rome, 
Thou, by my woes art haply old become : 
Grant, heaven ! that such I may behold thy face, 
And thy changed cheek, with dear loved kisses trace 
Fold thy diminished person, and exclaim, 
Begret for me has thinned this beauteous frame, 



BEN! OA'B I'aii.ina. 29J 

Here then behave the most abandoned libertine 
or his profligate lames reduced at lasl in his old 
ige, in disgrace and exile, to throw himself, foi 
rympathy and consolation into the anus of a tender 
and amiable wife ; and this, after spending his life 
and talents in deluding the tenderness, corrupting 
the virtue, and reviling the characters of women. 
In truth, half a dozen volumes in praise of our 
sex could scarce say more than this. 

Every one, I believe, recollects die Btnking 
story of Paulina, the wife of Seneca. When the 
order was brought from Nero that he should die, 
she insisted apon dying with him, and by the same 
operation. She accordingly prepared to be bled 
to death; but fainting away in the midst of her 
sufferings, Seneca commanded her wounds to be 
bound up, and conjured her to live. She lived 
therefore; but excessive weakness and loss of 
blood gave her, during the short remainder of her 
life that spectral appearance which has caused her 
conjugal fidelity and her pallid hue to pass into a 
proverb,— -as pale as Seneca's Paulina;" and be 
it remembered, that Paulina was at this time young 
in comparison of her husband, who was old and 
singularly ugly. 

This picturesque story of Paulina affects us in 
our younger years; but at a later oeriod we are 
more likely to sympathize with the wife of Lucan, 
Polla Argentaria, who beheld her husband perish 
by the same death as his uncie Seneoa, and through 
ove for his fame, cons/mted to survive him She 



£94 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

appears to have been the original after whom he 
drew his beautiful portrait of Cornelia the wife of 
Pompey. Luean had left the manuscript of the 
Pharsalia in an imperfect state ; and his wife who 
had been in its progress his amanuensis, his coun- 
sellor and confidant, and therefore best knew his 
wishes and intentions, undertook to revise and 
copy it with her own hand. During the rest of 
her life, which was devoted to this dear and pious 
task, she had the bust of Lucan always placed 
beside her couch, and his works lying before her : 
and in the form in which Polla Argentaria left it 
his great poem has descended to our times. 

I have read also, though I confess my acquaint- 
ance with the classics is but limited, of a certain 
Latin poetess, Sulpicia, who celebrated her husband 
Calenas : and the poet Ausonius composed many 
fine verses in praise of a beautiful and virtuous 
wife, whose name I forget.* 

But I feel I am treading unsafe ground, rendered 
so both by my ignorance, and by my prejudices as 
a woman. Generally speaking, the heroines of 
classical poetry and history are not much to my 
taste ; in their best virtues they were a little mas- 
tuline, and in their vices so completely unsexed, 
that one would rather not think of them — speak 
of them — far less write of them. 

***** 

The earliest instance I can recollect of modem 
poujugal poetry, is taken from a country, and a 

* Elton's Specimens. 



<-r.o 1 1 1 . i > i : dk sruvii.i.i:. 2'jl 

Haas, and a time where one would seine look for 
high poetic excellence inspired by conjugal ten- 
derness. It is thai of a Frenchwoman of hull 
rank, in the fifteenth century, when France was 
Barbarized by the prevalence of misery, profli 
md bloodshed, in every revolting form. 

Marguerite-EWonore-Clotilde de Surville, of the 
noble family of Vallon Chalys, was the wife of 
Berenger de Surville, and lived in those disastrous 
times which immediately succeeded the battle of 
Agihcourt She was born in 1405, and educated 

in the court of the Count de Foix, where she gave 
an early proof of literary and poetical talent, by 
translating, when eleven years old, one of Pe- 
trarch's Canzoni, with a harmony of style wonder- 
fid, not only for her age, but for the times in which 
Bhe lived. At the age of sixteen she married the 
Chevalier du Surville, then, like herself, in the 
bloom of youth, and to whom she was passionately 
attached. In those days no man of noble blood, 
who had a feeling for the misery of his country, or 
a hearth and home to defend, could avoid taking 
an active part in the scenes of barbarous strife 
around him ; and De Surville, shortly after his 
marriage, followed his heroic sovereign, Charles 
the Seventh, to the field. Durin<j his absence, hn 
wife addressed to him the most beautiful effusions 
of conjugal tenderness to be found, I think, in the 
lompass of poetry In the time of Clotilde, 
French verse was not bound down by those 
levere laws and artificial restraints by which it ha* 



896 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

Bince been shackled : we have none of the pretti- 
nesses, the epigrammatic turns, the sparkling points, 
and elaborate graces, which were the fashion in 
the days of Louis Quatorze. Boileau would have 
shrugged up his shoulders, and elevated his eye- 
brows, at the rudeness of the style ; but Moliere, 
who preferred 

J'aime mieux ma mie, oh gai ! 

to all the fades galanteries of his contemporary bek 
esprits, would have been enchanted with the naive 
tenderness, the freshness and flow of youthful feel- 
ing which breathe through the poetry of Clotilde. 
The antique simplicity of the old French lends it 
such an additional charm, that though in making a 
few extracts, I have ventured to modernize the 
spelling, I have not attempted to alter a word of 
the original. 

Clotilde has entitled her first epistle " Hero'ide k 
mon epoux Berenger ; " and as it is dated in 1422, 
she could not have been more than seventeen when 
it was written. The commencement recalls the 
superscription of the first letter of Heloise to Abe- 
lard. 

Clotilde, au sien ami, douce mande accolade 1 

A son 6poux, salut, respect, amour ! 
Ah, tandis qu'eplor^e et de coeur si malade, 

Te quier * la nuit, te redemande au jour— 
Que deviens? ou cours tu? Loin de ta bien-aime'e, 

Oil les destins, entrainent done tes pas ? 

* Querir. 



ci.o i ii.m: in: >i BVILLB. 237 

'Fan! que le dlse, belasl B'en eroli la ronemmea 
De biiMi long temps ae te reverral pas? 

She tlu-n describes her lonely Btate, her grief fin 
his absence, ber pining for his return. She laments 

the horrors of war which have torn him from h.-r; 
but in a strain of eloquent poetry, and in the spirit 
of a high-SOuled woman, to whom her husband's 
honor was dear as his life, she calls on him to per- 
form all that his duty as a brave knight, and bis 
loyalty to his sovereign require. She reminds him, 
with enthusiasm, of tin- motto of French chivalry, 
" mourir plutot que trahir son devoir;" then sud- 
denly breaking oil', with a graceful and wit'e-like 
modesty, she wonders at her own presumption thus 
to address her lord, her husband, the son of a race 
of heroes, — 

M:us quo dis! :ih d'ou vient qu'onmeilleuse f advi.se! 

Toi, escolicr! toi, l'enfant des heros! 
Pardonne muintes soucis a celle qui t'adore— 

A tant d' amour, est perm is quelque eflroi. 

She describes herself looking out from the tower 
of her castle to watch the return of his banner ; 
»he tells him how she again and again visits the 
scenes endeared by the remembrance of their mu- 
tual happiness. The most beautiful touches of de- 
Eoription are here mingled with the fond expres- 
lions of feminine tenderness. 

La, me dis-je, ai recu sa demiere caresse, 
Et jusqu'aux as, soudain, me sens bruler. 



898 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

lei les ung ormeil, ceroid par aubespm8 

Quo doux printemps ja * courronnait de flours, 

Me dit adieu — Sanglots suffoquent ma poctrine, 

Et dans mes yeux roulent torrents de pleurs. 

***** 

D'autresfbis, dcartant ces cruelles images, 

Crois m'enfoncant au plus dense des bois, 
Meier des rossignols aux amoureuse ramages, 

Entre tes bras, mon amoureux voix : 
Me semble ouir, dchappant de ta bouche rose's, 

Ces mots gentils, qui me font tressaillir, 
Ainz t vois au meme instant que me suis abusee 

Et soupirant, suis prete a deTailler! 

After indulging in other regrets, expressed witti 
rather more naivete than suits the present taste, 
she bursts into an eloquent invective against the 
English invaders,^ and the factious nobles of 
France, whose crimes and violence detained her 
husband from her arms. 

Quand reverrai, dis-moi, ton si duisant§ visage? 

Quand te pourrai face a face mirer ? 
T'enlacer tenement a mon frement || corsage, 

Que toi, ui moi, n'en puissions respirer? 

Mid she concludes with this tender envoi: 

Ou, que suives ton roi, ne mets ta douce amie 
En tel oubli, qu' ignore ou git ce lieu: 

Jusqu'alors en souci, de calme n'aura mie, — 
Plus ne t'en dis — que t'en souvienne! adieu! 

* Ja— jadis (the old French ja is the Italian gid.) 
t Ainz : — cependant (the Italian anzi.) 
% She calls them the " Vultures of Albion." 
i Duisant, seduisant. y Free 



cr.m ii i»i; Di. iUBVTLLH 299 

Clotilde became a mother before the return of 
ber husband; and the delicious moment in which 
she first placed her infant in his father's anus, sag. 
gested the verses she has entitled" Ballade k moo 

fcpoux, lors, quand tournait aprfcs un an d'absence, 
•nifl en B6S bras not re filfl enfan(-on." 

The pretty burden of this little ballad has often 
Deen quoted. 

Pant etro deux pour avoir du plaisir, 
Plaisir ne Test qu'autant qu'on le partage! 

But, says the mother 

t^i tiers si doux ne fait tort a plaisir? 

and should her husband be again torn from her, 
she will console herself in his absence, by teaching 
the boy to lisp his lather's name. 

Gentil £poux! si Mars et ton courage 
Plus contraignaient ta Clotilde a g<?mir, 

De lui montrer en son petit laugage, 
A t'appeller ferai tout mon plaisir— 

Plaisir ue Test qu'autant qu'on le partage! 

Among some other little poems, which place the 
conjugal and maternal character of Clotilde in a 
most charming light, I must notice one more for ita 
tender and heart-felt beauty. It is entitled " Bal- 
Jade a mon premier ne," and is addressed to hei 
child, apparently in the absence of its father 

O cher eufactelet, «rai portrait Je ton pere! 
Dors sur le sein .;uc ta bouche a presa^ 1 



100 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

Dors petit! — clos, ami, sur le sein de ta mere, 
Tien doux oeillet, par le somme oppress^. 

Bel ami — cber petit! que ta pupille tendre, 
Gcrate un somme il que plus n'est fait pour moi: 

Je veille pour te voir, te nourir, te defendre, 
Ainz qu'il est doux ne veiller que pour toi! 

Contemplating him asleep, she says, 

N'e'tait ce teint fleuri des couleurs de la pomme, 
Ne le diriez vous dans les bras de la mort ? 

Then, shuddering at the idea she had conjured up, 
she breaks forth into a passionate apostrophe to hey 
Bleeping child, 

Arrete, cher enfant! j'en frdmis toute entiere— 

Ee veille toi ! chasse un fatal propos ! 
Mon fils . . . pour un moment — ah revois la lumiere I 

Au prix du tien, rends-moi tout mon r^pos ! 
Douce erreur! il dormait . . . c'est, assez, je respire. 

Songes legers, flattez son doux sommeil; 
Ah! quand verrai celui pour qui mon coeur soupire, 

Au miens cote's jouir de son reVeil? 

***** 
Quand reverrai celui dont as recu la vie? 

Mon jeune dpoux, le plus beau des humains 
Oui — de\ja crois voir ta mere, aux cieux ravie, 

Que tends vers lui tes innocentes mains. 
Comme ira se duisant a ta premiere caresse ! 

Au miens baisers com' t'ira disputant! 
Ainz ne compte, a toi seul, d' dpuiser sa tendresse.— 

A sa Clotilde en garde bien autant ! 

Along the margin of the original MS. of thil 
poem, was written an additional stanza, in the same 
hand, and quite worthy of the rest. 



CI.otm.dk DE sruvn.i.K. 301 

Voilfi BM traits ... son air ... Toil* tout ce quo j'iiime! 

Feu ilt« son ( i-ii, et i a ii'int .... 

D'oii vicnt m't-ii rlmliirV mitre au'tn l<<nt lui nJMf, 
/'«/-// jamais iclort >/< mini scinf 

This is beautiful and ferae ; beautiful, because it 

is true. There ifl DOtbing of fancy nor of art, the 

intense feeling gushes, warm and strong, from the 
heart of the writer, and it comes home to the heart 
of the reader, filling it with Bweetness. — Am I 
wrong in supposing that the occasional obscurity of 
the old Preach will not disguise the beauty of the 
lenttmenl from the young wife or mother, whose 
eye may glance over this page ? 

It is painful, it is pitiful, to draw the veil of death 
and sorrow oyer this sweet picture. 

What is this worM V what :i-ken men to have? 
Now with his love — now in his cold ^rave, 
Alone, withouten any companie!* 

De Surville closed his brief career of happiness 
and glory (and what more than these could he 
have asked of Heaven?) at the siege of Orleans, 
where he fought under the banner of Joan of 
Arc. f He was a gallant and a loyal knight; so 
were hundreds of others who then strewed the des- 
olated fields of France: and De Surville had fallen 
undistinguished amid the general havoc of all that 
was noble and brave. If the love and genius of his 
wife had not immortalized him. 

Clotilde, after her loss, resided in the ch&teaa 

* Chaucer. 

t He perished in 1429 leaving his widow in her twenty-fburtfc 



J02 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

of her husband, in the Lyonnois, devoting herself 
to literature and the education of her son: and 
it is very remarkable, considering the times in 
which she lived, that she neither married again, nor 
entered a religious house. The fame of her poeti- 
cal talents, which she continued to cultivate in her 
retirement, rendered her at length, an object of 
celebrity and interest. The Duke of Orleans hap- 
pened one day to repeat some of her verses to Mar- 
garet of Scotland, the first wife of Louis the Elev- 
enth ; and that accomplished patroness of poetry 
and poets wrote her an invitation to attend her at 
court, which Clotilde modestly declined. The 
Queen then sent her, as a token of her admiration 
and friendship, a wreath of laurel, surmounted with 
a bouquet of daisies, (Marguerites, in allusion to 
the name of both,) the leaves of which were 
wrought in silver and the flowers in gold, with this 
inscription : " Marguerite d'Ecosse a Marguerite 
d'Helicon." We are told that Alain Chartier, en- 
vious perhaps of these distinctions, wrote a satirical 
quatrain, in which he accused Clotilde of being de- 
ficient in Vair de cour, and that she replied to him, 
and defended herself in a very spirited rondeau. 
Nothing more is known of the life of this interest- 
ing woman, but that she had the misfortune to sur- 
vive her son as well as her husband ; and dying at 
the advanced age of ninety, in 1495, she wai 
buried with them in the same tomb.* 

* Les Poetes FranQais jusqtfa Malherbes, par Augin. A good 
Ktttlon of the works of Clotilde de Surrille was published i* 



VITTORIA COJ.OVNA. SOI 

CHAPTBB XXIV. 

CONJUGAL POETRY, CONTINUED. 

vrrrotUA colonna. 

Half a century later, we find the name tf an 
Italian poetess, as interesting as our Clotilde de 
Surville, and far more illustrious. Vittoria Colonna 
was not thrown, with all her eminent gifts and cap- 
tivating graces, among a rude people in a rude age; 
but all favorable influences, of time and circum- 
stances, and fortune, conspired, with native talent, 
to make her as celebrate. 1 as she was truly admir- 
able. She was the wife of that Marquis of Pes- 
cara, who has earned himself a name in the busiest 
and bloodiest page of history : — of that Pescara 
who commanded the armies of Charles the Fifth in 
Italy, and won the battle of Pavia, where Francis 
the First was taken prisoner. But great as was 
Pescara as a statesman and a military commander, 
he is far more interesting as the husband of Vitto- 
ria Colonna; and the laurels he reaped in the battle- 
Paris in 1802, and another in 1804. I believe both have become 
scarce. Her Polities consist of pas+orals, ballads, songs, epistles, 
and the fragment of an epic poem, of which the MS. is lost. Of 
her merit there Is but one opinion. She is confessedly the great- 
est poetical genius which France could boast in a period of two 
hundred years ; that is, from the decline of ihe Provencal pot- 
toy, till about 1600. 



304 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

field, are perishable and worthless, compared to 
those which his admirable wife wreathed around hia 
brow. So thought Ariosto; who tells us, that if 
Alexander envied Achilles the fame he had ac- 
quired in the songs of Homer, how much more had 
he envied Pescara those strains in which his gifted 
consort had exalted his fame above that of all con- 
temporary heroes ? a^d not only rendered herself 
immortal : 

Ool dolce stil, di che il miglior non odo, 
Ma pu6 qualunque, di cui parli o scriva 
Trar dal sepolcro, e fa ch' eterno viva. 

He prefers her to Artemisia, for a reason rathei 
quaintly expressed, — 

Anzi 

Tanto maggior, quanto e phi assai bell' opra, 
Che por sotterra un uom, trarlo di sopra. 

" So much more praise it is, to raise a man above 
the earth, than to bury him under it." He com- 
pares her successively to all the famed heroines of 
Greece and Rome, — to Laodamia, to Portia, to 
Arria, to Argia, to Evadne, — who died with or for 
iheir husbands ; and concludes, 

Quanto onore a Vittoria e piu dovuto 
Che di Lete, e del Bio che nove volte 
1/ ombre circonda, ha tratto il suo consorte, 
Malgrado delle parche, e della inorte.* 

In fact, at a period when Italy could boast of * 

* Orlando Furioso, canto 37. 



VITTOUIA COI.ONN'A. 305 

constellation of female talent, raoh m oeTer befi re 
or since adorned any one country at the same time, 
and berides a Dumber of women accomplished in 
languages, philosophy, and the abstruser branches 
of [earning, reckoned sixty poetesses, nearly con- 
temporary, there was not one to be compared with 
Vittoria Colonna*— herself the theme of song; and 
ujwn whom her enthusiastic countrymen have lav- 
ished all the high-sounding superlatives of a lan- 
guage, so rich in expressive and sonorous epithets, 
that it seems to multiply fame and magnify praise. 
We find Vittoria designated in Italian biography, a.s 
J>irn, divina, maravigliosa, elctissiina, illustrissima, 
virtuosissima, dottissima, castissima, gloriosissima, 
&c. 

But immortality on earth, as in heaven, must be 
purchased at a certain price; and Vittoria, rich in 
all the gifts which heaven, and nature, and fortune 
combined, ever lavished on one of her sex, paid 
for her celebrity with her happiness ; for thus it has 
ever been, and must ever be, in this world of ours, 
" oti les plus belles choses out le pire destin." 

Her descent was illustrious on both sides. She 
was iln« daughter of the Grand Constable Fabrizio 
Colonna, and of Anna di Montefeltro, daughter of 
the Duke of Urbino, and was born about 1490. At 
four years old she was destined to seal the friend- 
ship which existed between her own family and 
that of d' A valo, by a virion with the young Count 
d'Avab. afterwards Marquis of Pescara, who was 
exactly her own age. Such infant marriages are 
-.20 



806 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

contracted at a fearful risk ; yet, if auspicious. tii€ 
habit of loving from an early age, and the feeling 
of settled appropriation, prevent the affections from 
wandering, and plant a mutual happiness upon a 
foundation much surer than that of fancy or im- 
pulse. It was so in this instance, 

Conforme era 1' etate 

Ma '1 pensier piu conforme. 

Vittoria, from her childish years, displayed the 
most extraordinary talents, combined with all the 
personal charms and sweet proprieties more char- 
acteristic of her sex. When not more th-an fifteen 
or sixteen, she was already distinguished among 
her countrywomen, and sought even by sovereign 
princes. The Duke of Savoy and the Duke of 
Braganza made overtures to obtain her hand ; the 
Pope himself interfered in behalf of one of these 
princes ; but both were rejected. Vittoria, ac- 
customed to consider herself as the destined bride 
of young d'Avalo, cultivated for him alone those 
talents and graces which others admired and 
coveted, and resolved to wait till her youthful 
lover was old enough to demand the ratification of 
their infant vows. She says of herself, 

Appena avean gli spirti intera vita, 

Quando il mio cor proscrisse ogn' altro oggetto. 

Pescara had not the studious habits or literary 
ialents of his betrothed bride ; but his beauty of 
person, his martial accomplishments, and his brave 
*n^ noble nature, were precisely calculated to 



VTTTOH] I DOLONNA. 307 

mpreei her poetical imagination, as contrasted 
*ith her own gentler and more contemplative 
character. Be loved her too with the most entbus* 
letic adoration ; he even prevailed on their mutual 
parents to anticipate tin- period fixed for their 

nuptials ; and al the age of seventeen they were 
kOlemnly united. 

The first four years after their marriage were 
chiefly spent in a delightful retreat in the island 
of Ischia, where Peseara had a palace and domain. 
Here, tar from the world, and devoted to each 
other, and to the most elegant pursuits, they seem 
to have revelled in BUCh Miss as poete limn' and 

romancers feign. Hence the frequent allusions to 

the island of Ischia, in Yittoria's later poems, as a 
Bpot beloved by her husband, and the scene of 
their youthful happiness. One tiling alone was 
wanting to complete this happiness : I leaven denied 
them children. She laments this disappointment 
in the 22d Sonnet, where she says, that " since she 
may not be the mother of sons, who shall inherit 
their father's glory, yet she will at least, by uniting 
her name with his in verse, become the mother of 
his illustrious deeds and lofty fame." 

Peseara, whose active and martial genius led 
him to take a conspicuous part in the wars wliich 
then agitated Italy, at length quitted his wife to 
join the army of the Emperor. Yittoria, with 
tears resigned him to his duty. On his departure 
#he presented him with many tokens of love, and 
among the rest, with a banner, and a dressing* 



808 CONJUGAL POETRV. 

gown ricnly embroidered; on the latter she had 
worked with her own hand, in silken cl aracters 
the motto, " Nunquam minus otiosus quam cum 
otiosus erat."* She also presented him with some 
branches of palm, " In segno di felice augurio ; " 
but her bright anticipations were at first cruelly 
disappointed. Pescara, then in his twenty-second 
year, commanded as general of cavalry at the 
battle of Ravenna, where he was taken prisoner, 
and detained at Milan. While in confinement, he 
amused his solitude by showing his Vittoria that he 
had not forgotten their mutual studies and early 
happiness at Ischia. He composed an essay or 
dialogue on Love, which he addressed to her ; and 
which, we are told, was remarkable for its eloquence 
and spirit as a composition, as well as for the most 
high-toned delicacy of sentiment. He was not 
liberated till the following year. 

Vittoria had taken for her devise, such was the 
fashion of the day, a little Cupid within a circle 
formed by a serpent, with the motto, " Quern 
peperit virtus prudentia servet amorem," — " The 
love which virtue inspired, discretion shall guard ; " 
and during her husband's absence, she lived in 
retirement, principally in her loved retreat in the 
island of Ischia, devoting her time to literature, 
and to the composition of those beautiful Sonnets 
in which she celebrated the exploits and virtues of 
her husband. He, whenever his military or po» 
Stical duties allowed of a short absence from th« 

* " Never less idle than when idle." 



vi i i oKi, \ OOLONNA. 301 

theatre of war, Sew to rejoin bv; and these short 
»nd delicioufl meetings, and the continual dangen 
ko which be was exposed, seem to bare kept alive, 
through many long years, all the romance and 

fervor of (heir early love. In the 7UUi Sonuet, 
Yitioiia so beautifully alludes to one of those 
meetings, that I am tempted to extract it. in prftfen- 
Bnoe toothers better known, and !>y many esteemed 
luperior as compositions. 

Qui fece U mio bol sol a noi ritorno, 
Di Regie BpogJie carco, e ricche prede; 
Alii! con qnanto dolor, l'occhio rivede 
Quei lochi, ov' ci mi fea gift il giornol 

Di mille glorie alloc ointo d' intorno, 
E d' onor vero, alia pin altiera sede 
Facean dolle opre udite intcra fede 
m ardito volto, il parlar saggio adorno. 

Vinto da priegln miei, poi mi mostrava 
Le belle cicatrici, e '1 tempo, e '1 modo 
Delle vittorie sue tante, e si chiare. 

Quanta pena or mi da, gioja mi dava; 

E in questo, e in quel pensier, piangend godo 
Tra poche dolci, e assai lagrime amare. 

This description of her husband returning, loaded 
with spoils and honors; — of her fond admiration, 
mingled with a feminine awe of his warlike de- 
meanor; — of his yielding, half reluctant, to her 
►finder entreaties, and showing her the wounds he 
had received in battle ; — then the bitter thought! 



310 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

Df his danger and absence, mingling -with, and 
interrupting these delicious recollections of happi 
aess, — are all as true to feeling as they are beautiful 
in poetry. 

After a short career of glory, Pescara was at 
length appointed commander-in-chief of the Im- 
perial armies, and gained the memorable battle of 
Pavia. Feared by his enemies, and adored by his 
soldiers, his power was at this time so great, that 
many attempts were made to shake his fidelity to 
the Emperor. Even the kingdom of Naples waa 
offered to him if he would detach himself from the 
party of Charles the Fifth. Pescara was not 
without ambition, though without "the ill that 
should attend it." He wavered — he consulted his 
wife; — he expressed his wish to place her on a 
throne she was so fitted to adorn. That admirable 
and high-minded woman wrote to confirm him in 
the path of honor, and besought him not to sell his 
faith and truth, and his loyalty to the cause in 
which he had embarked, for a kingdom. "For 
me," she said, " believe that I do not desire to be 
the wife of a King ; I am more proud to be the 
wife of that great captain, who in war by his valor, 
and in peace by his magnanimity, has vanquished 
the greatest monarchs."* 

On receiving this letter, Pescara hastened tff 

* "Non desidero d'esser moglie d'tm re; bensi di quel graB 
Bapitano, il quale non solamente in guerra con valor, ma ancor* 
n Dace con la magnanimity ha saputo vincere i re pii grande.' 
Vita di Vittoria Colonna, da Giambattista Rota.) 



VITTORIA COLONNA. 311 

»hakc oiT the subtle tempters round him ; but he 
had previously become so tar entangled, that he 

did not escape without some impeachment of his 
before stainless honor. The hitter consciousness 
of this, and the effects of some desperate wounds 

he had received at the battle of Pavia, which 

broke out afresh, put a period to his life at Milan, 
in his thirty-fifth year.* 

The Marcheaana was at Naples when the news 
of his danger arrived. She immediately set out 

to join him; bat was met at Viterbo by a courier 
bearing the tidings of his death. On hearing this 
intelligence, she tainted away ; and being brought 
a little to herself, Bank into a stupor of grief, which 
alarmed her attendants for her reason or her life. 
Seasonable tears at length came to her relief; but 
her sorrow, for a long, long time, admitted no allevi- 
ation. She retired, after her fust overwhelming 
anguish had subsided, to her favorite residence in 
the isle of Tschia, where she spent, almost uninter- 
ruptedly, the first seven years of her widowhood. 

Being only in her thirty-fifth year, in the prime 
of her life and beauty, and splendidly dowered, 
it was supposed that she would marry again, and 
many of the Princes of Italy sought her hand ; her 
brothers urged it ; but she replied to their en- 
treaties and remonstrances, with a mixture of 
dignity and tenderness, that " Though her noble 
husband might be by others reputed dead, he still 

* See In Robertsons Charles V. an account of th* generous 
locduct of Pescara to the Chevalier Bayard 



J12 CONJUGAL POETRY 

lived to her, and to her heart." * And in one of her 
poems, she alludes to these attempts to shake her 
constancy. " I will preserve," she says, " the title 
of a faithful wife to my beloved, — a title dear to 
me beyond every other ; and on this island rock,"f 
once so dear to Mm, will I wait patiently, till time 
brings the end of all my griefs, as once of all my 
; oys." 

D' arder sempre piangendo non mi doglio! 
Forse avro di fedele il titol vero, 
Caro a me sopra ogn' altro etorno onore. 
Non cambiero la fe, — ne questo scoglio 
Ch' al mio sol piacque, ove finire spero 
Come le dolci gia, quest' amore ore ! J 

This Sonnet was written in the seventh year of 
her widowhood. She says elsewhere, that her 
heart having once been so nobly bestowed, disdains 
a meaner chain ; and that her love had not ceased 
with the death of its object. — 

Di cosi nobil fiamma amore mi cinse, 
Ch' essendo spenta, in me viva 1' ardore. 

There is another, addressed to the poet, Molza, 
in which she alludes to the fate of his parents, who, 
by a singular providence, both expired in the 
Bame day and hour ; such a fate appeared to he* 



* Che il suo sole, quantunque dagli altri fosse riputato morts 
tppresso di lei sempre re Tivea. (Vita.) 
t Ischia. % Sonnet 74 



VIII OR] V ( nl 11NNA. 313 

worthy of envy ; and she laments *ery tenderly 
that Itciven bad doomed ber to survive him with 

whom her heart lay buried. There arc «»t Imts ad- 

dffcund to Cardinal Bembo, in which she thus ex- 
ousei herself for making Pescara the subject of her 

verse. 

Scrivo sol per ofogar 1' Interna doglia; 
La pun fe, r ardor, r Intensa pena 
Mi BOUBfl. appo ciascun; cho '1 grave pianto 
E till, cho tempo, no raggion r affrena. 

There is also a Canzone by Vittoria, full of 
poetry ami feeling, in which she alludes to the loss 
of that beauty which once she was proud to possess, 
because it was dear in her husband's right "Look 
down upon me," she exclaims, kk from thy seat of 
glory ! look down upon me with those eyes that ever 
turned with tenderness on mine ! Behold, how misery 
has changed me ; how all that once was beauty is 
fled ! — and yet I am — I am the same ! " — (Io son — 
io son ben dessa !) — But no translation — none at 
least that I could execute — would do justice to the 
deej) pathos, the feminine feeling, and the eloquent 
simplicity of this beautiful and celebrated poem. 
The reader will find it in Mathias's collection.* 

After the lapse of several years, her mind, ele- 
vated by the very nature of her grief, took a strong 
devotional turn ; and from this time, we find her 
poetry entirely consecrated to sacred subjects. 

* Componimeuti Lirici, vo:. i. 144. 



514 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

The first of these Rime spirituali is exquiaitelv 
beautiful. She allows that the anguish she had 
felt on the death of her noble husband, was not 
alleviated, but rather nourished and kept alive in 
all its first poignancy, by constantly dwelling on 
the theme of his virtues and her own regrets ; that 
the thirst of fame, and the possession of glory, could 
not cure the pining sickness of her heart ; and that 
she now turned to Heaven as a last and best re- 
source agains- sorrow.* 

Poiche '1 mio casto amor, gran tempo tenne 
L' alma di fama accesa, ed ella un angue 
In sen nudrio, per cui dolente or langue, — 
Volta al Signor, onde il remedio venne. 

^ ^ ^K ^ 

Chiamar qui non convien Parnasso o Delo; 
Ch' ad altra acqua s' aspira, ad altro monte 
Si poggia, u' piede uman per se non sale. 

Not the least of Vittoria's titles to fame, was the 
intense adoration with which she inspired Michel 
Angelo. Condivi says he was enamoured of her 
divine talents. " In particolare egli amd grande- 

* L' hoimeur d'avoir ete, entre toutes les poetes, la premier* 
ft. composer un recueil de poesies sacrees, appartient, toute en- 
tiere, a Vittoria Colonna. (See Ginguene.) Her masterpieces, 
In this style, are said to be the sonnet on the death of oul 
Saviour, — 

" Gli Angeli eletti al gran bene infinite ' 
and the hymn 

" Padre Eterno del cielo ! " 
which is sublime; it may be found in Mathias's Collection 
tol. iii. 



vi ri oi:i \ co.dwa.. 315 

nente la Marchesana <li Pescara, del eni divino 
ipiritoara inamorato; " and he makes u-e of a strong 
expression to describe the admiration ami friend- 
ship she i'elt for Dim in return. She was fifteen 
years younger than Michel Angelo, who not only 
employed his pencil and hisehi-cl for her pleasure, 
or at her suggestion, but has left among his poems 
several which are addressed to her, and which 
breathe that deep and fervent, yet pure and rever- 
ential love she was as worthy to inspire as he waa 
to feel. 

I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of adding 
here one of the Sonnets, addressed by Michel An- 
gelo to the Marchesana of Pescara, as translated 
by Wordsworth, in a peal of grand harmony, 
almost as literal/// faithful to the expression as to 
the spirit of the original. 

SOXN'ET. 

Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, 

And I be undeluded, unbetrayed; 

For if of our affections none find grace 

In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made 

The world which we inhabit? Better plea 

Love cannot have, than that in loving thee 

Glorv to that eternal peace is paid, 

Who such divinity to thee imparts 

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 

His hope is treacherous only whose lcve dies 

*?ith beauty, which is varying every hour: 

But, in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the power 

Ot outward change, there blooms a deathless flower. 

That breathes en earth the air ot Paradise. 



U6 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

He stood by her in her last moments ; and when 
her lofty and gentle spirit had forsaken its fair 
tenement, he raised her hand and kissed it with <* 
sacred respect. He afterwards expressed to an in- 
timate friend, his regret, that being oppressed by 
the awful feelings of that moment, he had not, for 
the first and last time, pressed his lips to hers. 

Vittoria had another passionate admirer in 
Galeazzo di Tarsia, Count of Belmonte in Cala- 
bria, and an excellent poet of that time.* His 
attachment was a poetical, but apparently not quite 
so Platonic, as that of Michel Angelo. His beauti- 
ful Canzone beginning, 

A quel pietra sommiglia 
La mia bella Colonna, 

contains lines rather more impassioned than tne 
modest and grave Vittoria could have approved 
for example — 

Con lei foss' io da che si parte il sole, 

E non ci vedesse altri che le stelle, 

— Solo una notte — e mai non fosse 1' Alba ! 

Marini and Bernardo Tasso were also numbered 
among her poets and admirers. 

Vittoria Colonna died at Rome, in 1547. She 
was suspected of favoring' in secret the reformed 
ioctrines; but I do not know on what authority 

* Died 1535 



v i i TOB1 k OOLONHA. 817 

Romo«' mentions thia Her noble birth, her ad- 
mirable beauty, her illustrious marriage, her splen- 
did senilis, (which made her the worship of L r »'iiius 

— and the theme of poets.) have rendered her one 
of the most remarkable of women ; as her sorrows, 
her conjugal virtues, her innocence of heart, and 
elegance of mind, have rendered her one of the 
moflt interesting. 

" Where could she fix on mortal ground 
Those tender thoughts and high? 

Now peace the woman's heart hath found, 
And joy the poet's eye! " 

Antiquity may boast its heroines; but it required 

virtues of a higher order to be a Vittoria Colonna, 
or a Lady Russell, than to be a Portia or an Arria. 
How much more graceful, and even more sublime, 
is the moral strength, the silent enduring heroism 
Df'the Christian, than the stern, impatient defiance 
of destiny, which showed so imposing in the 
heathen 1 How much more difficult is it sometimes 
to live than to die 1 

Piu val d' ogni vittoria un bel 6oflirire. 

Or as Campbell has expressed nearly the same 
sentiment, 

To bear, is to conquer our fat* 



818 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

CONJUGAL POETRY, CONTINUED. 

VERONICA GAMEARA. 

Vittoria Colonna, and her famed friend and 
contemporary, Veronica, Countess of Correggio, are 
inseparable names in the history of Italian litera- 
ture, as living at the same time, and equally orna- 
ments of their sex. They resembled each other in 
poetical talent, in their domestic sorrows and con- 
jugal virtues : in every other respect the contrast 
is striking. Vittoria, with all her genius, seems to 
have been as lovely, gentle, and feminine a creature 
as ever wore the form of woman. 

No lily — no — nor fragrant hyacinth, 

Had half such softness, sweetness, blessedness. 

Veronica, on the contrary, was one, 

to whose masculine spirit 

To touch the stars had seemed an easy flight. 

She added to her talents and virtues, strong pas- 
Bions, — and happily also sufficient energy of mind 
to govern and direct them. She had not Vittoria's 
personal charms : it is said, that if her face had 
squalled her form, she would have been one of the 



TORONTO I QAMBi B \. 319 

most beautiful women of heT time : but her feature! 
were irregular, and her grand commanding figure, 
which in her youth was admired for its perfect 
proportions, grew large and heavy as she advanced 
in life, sin- retained, however, to the last, the 
animation of her countenance, the dignity of her 
deportment, and powers of conversation so fasci- 
nating, that none ever approached her without 

admiration, or quitted her society without regret 

Her verses have not the polished harmony and 
the graceful suavity uf Vittoria's ; but more vigor 

of expression, and more vivacity of coloring. 
Their defects were equally opposed : the simplicity 
of Veronica sometimes borders upon harshness 
and carelessness; the uniform sweetness of Vittoria 

is sometimes too elaborate and artificial. 

Veronica Oambara was born in 1485. HeT 
fortunate parents, as her biographer expresses it,* 
were Count Gian Francisco Gambara, and Alda 
Pia. In her twenty-fifth year, when already dis- 
tinguished as a poetess, and a woman of great and 
various learning, she married Ghiberto, Count of 
Correggio, to whom she appears to have been 
attached with all the enthusiasm of her character, 
and by whom she was tenderly loved in return. 
After the birth of her second son, she was seized 
with a dangerous disorder, of what nature we are 
not told. The physicians informed her husband 
that they did not despair of her recovery, but that 
the remedies they should be forced to emploj 

* Zamboui. 



520 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

would probably preclude all hope of her becoming 
again a mother. The Count, who had always 
wished for a numerous offspring, ordered them to 
employ these remedies instantly, and save her to 
him at every other risk. She recovered ; but the 
effects upon her constitution were such as had been 
predicted. 

Like Vittoria Colonna, she made the personal 
qualities and renown of her husband the principal 
subjects of her verse. She dwells particularly on 
his fine dark eyes, expressing very gracefully the 
various feelings they excited in her heart, whether 
clouded with thought, or serene with happiness, 01 
sparkling with affection.* She devotes six Sonnets 
and a Madrigal to this subject ; and if we may 
believe his poetical and admiring wife, these " occhi 
«tellante " could combine more variety of expression 
in a single glance than ever did eyes before 01 

since. 

Lieti, mesti, superbi, umili, altieri, 

Vi mostrate in un punto ; onde di speme 

E di timor m' empiete. — 

There is a great power and pathos in one of her 
poems, written on his absence. 

Stella ! Fato ! del mio mal si avaro ! 
Ch' 1 mio ben m' allontani, anzi m' involi— 
Fia mai quel di ch' io lo riveggia o mora ? t 

* " Molto ragamente spiegando i vaij e different! effetti eh* 
►ndavano cagionando nel di lei core, a misura che essi eran tor 
Mdi, o lieti, o sereni." — See her Life by Zamboni. 

t Sonnet 16. 



vikomc \ G kMV m: L 321 

Veronica losl her husband, after nine yean of 
the happiest anion.* He gave her an incontro- 
vertible proof of hia attachment and boundleei 
confidence, by leaving her hit sole executrix, with 
tlif government of Correggio, and the guardianship 
of hi* children during their minority. Her grief 
on this occasion threw her into a dangerous and 
protracted fever, which daring the rest of her life 

attacked her periodically. She says in one of her 
poems, that nothing but the fear of not meeting 
her beloved husband in Paradise prevented her 
from dying with him. She not only vowed herself 
lo a perpetual widowhood, but to a perpetual 
mourning; and the extreme vivacity of her imagi- 
nation was displayed in the strange trappings of 
woe with which she was henceforth surrounded. 
She lived in apartments hung and furnished with 
black, and from which every object of luxury was 
banished ; her liveries, her coach, her horses, were 
of the same funereal hue. There is extant a curi- 
ous letter addressed by her to Ludovico Rossi, in 
which she entreats her dear Messer Ludovico, by 
all their mutual friendship, to procure, at any price, 
a certain black horse, to complete her set of car- 
riage horses — " piu che notte oscuri, conformi, pro- 
prio a miei travagli." Over the door of her 
sleeping-room she inscribed the distich which 
Virgil has put into the mouth of Dido. 

Die meos, primus qui rae sibi juuxit, amores, 
Abstulit: Die habeat Becom servetq. e sepulchre! 
• Ghiberto da Oomggio died 1618 

21 



B22 CONJUGAL POETKY. 

He who once had my vows, shall ever have, 
Beloved on eai*th and worshipped in the grave ! 

But, unlike Dido, she did not "profess t«j* 
much." She kept her word. Neither did she 
neglect her duties ; but more fortunate in one 
respect than her fair and elegant friend the Mar- 
chesana, she had two sons, to whose education 
she paid the utmost attention, while she adminis- 
tered the government of Correggio with equal 
firmness and gentleness. Her husband had left a 
daughter,* whom she educated and married with a 
noble dower. Her eldest son, Hypolito, became a 
celebrated military commander ; her youngest and 
favorite son, Girolamo, was created a cardinal. 
Wherever Veronica loved, it seems to have been 
with the same passionate abandon which distin- 
guished her character in every thing. Writing to 
a friend to recommend her son to his kind offices, 
she assures him that he (her son) is not only a 
part of herself — but rather herself. " Remember," 
she says, " Ch' egli e la Veronica medesima," — a 
strong and tender expression. 

We find her in correspondence with all the most 
illustrious characters, political and literary, of that 
time ; and chiefly with Ariosto, Bembo, Molza, 
Sanazzaro, and Vittoria Colonna. Ariosto has 
paid her an elegant compliment in the last canto of 
the Orlando Furioso. She is one among the com- 
pany of beautiful and accomplished women and 
noble knights, who hail the poet at the conclusion 
* Constance, by bis first wife, Violante di Mirandola. 



VF.UO.NIC A (i AMI: \ka 323 

rf his work, as a long-travelled mariner is wel- 

Bomed to the shore i 

Veronica da Gambara o con loro 

rata a Febo, e al santo aonio coro. 

Thii was distinction enough to immortalise her, 
if she had oot already immortalized herself 

Veronica was not a prolific poetess ; but the few 
Sonnets she has left, have a vigor, a truth and sim- 
plicity, not often met with among the n'/nalori of 
that rhyming Bge. She has written fewer good 
poems than Yittoria Colonna, hut among them, 
two which are reckoned superior to Vittoria's best, 
— one addressed to the rival monarchs, Charles 
the Filth and Francis the First exhorting them to 
give peace to Italy, and unite their forces to pro- 
tect civilized Europe from the incursions of the 
infidels ; the other, which is exquisitely tender and 
picturesque, was composed on revisiting her native 
place, Brescia, after the death of her husband. 

Poi che per mia ventura a veder torno, &c. 

It may be found in the collection of Mathias. 

Veronica da Gambara died in 1550, and was 
bnried by her husband. 

It should seem that poetical talents and conjugal 
truth and tenderness were inherent in the family 
of Veronica. Her niece, Camilla Val^ntini, the 
authoress of some very sweet poems, which are to 
be found in various Scelte, marked the Count del 
Verme, who died after a union of several years. 



324 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

She had flung herself, in a transport of grief, on 
the body of her husband ; and when her attendants 
attempted to remove her, they found her — dead 
Even in that moment of anguish her heart had 
broken. 

judge her gently, who so deeply loved ! 
Her, who in reason's spite, without a crime, 
Was in a trance of passion thus removed I 
***** 

I have been detained too long in " the sweet 
South ; " yet, before we quit it for the present, I 
must allude to one or two names which cannot be 
entirely passed over, as belonging to the period of 
which we have been speaking — the golden age of 
Italy and of literature. 

Bernardino Rota, who died in 1575, a poet of 
considerable power and pathos, has left a volume 
of poems, " In vita e in morte di Porzia Capece ; " 
she was a beautiful woman of Naples, whom he 
loved and afterwards married, and who was 
snatched from him in the pride of her youth and 
beauty. Among his Sonnets, I find one peculiarly 
striking, though far from being the best. The 
picture it presents, with all its affecting accompani- 
ments, and the feelings commemorated, are obvi- 
ously taken from nature and reality. The poet — 
the husband — approaches to contemplate the rife- 
less form of his Portia, and weeping, he draws 
from her pale cold hand the nuptial ring, which he 
had himself placed on her finger with all the fond 
anticipations of love and hope — the pledge of a 



32: 



inkra which death alone could dissolve : and now, 
tvith a breaking heart, be transfers it to his own 
Such Ls the Bubjecl of this Btriking poem, which 
with some few faults againsl taste, is still singular!* 
picturesque and eloquent, particularly the 'aat ?ix 
lines. — 



BONBTTO. 



Questa Boolpita In oro, amioa fede, 
Cho Banto amor ael tuo be] dlto pose, 
prima a me delle terrene cose! 
Donna! euro mio pregio,-- alta merced — 

Ben fu da to serbata; e ben si vede 
Che al cummun' volor' sempre rispose, 
Del dl ch' il ciel nel mio pensier' t' ascose, 
E quanto puote dar, tutto mi diede! 

Ecco ch' io la t' invola — ecco ne spoglio 
II freddo avorio che 1' oniava ; e vesto 
La mia, pin assai che la tua, mano esangue. 

Dolce mio furto! fineho vivo io voglio 
Che tu stia meco — ne le sia molesto 
Ch' or di pianto ti bagni, — e poi di sangue! 

LITERAL TRANSLATION. 

" This circlet of sculptured gold— this pledge which 
wicred affection placed on that fair hand— Lady! 
dearest tome of all earthly things,— my sweet possession 
and my lovely prize,— well and faithfully didst thou pre- 
serve it ! the bond of a mutual love and mutual faith, 
even from that hour when Heaven bestowed on me all it 
could bestow of bliss. Now then— now do I take it 
rrom thee! and thus do I withdraw it from the cold ivorv 
>f that hand which so adorned and honored it. I plac« 
<t on mine own, now chill, and damp, anr" Dale as thine- 



826 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

beloved theft ! — While I live thou shalt never part from 
me. Ah ! be not offended if thus I stain thee with these 
..ears, — and soon perhaps with life-drops from my heart." 

***** 

Castiglione, besides being celebrated as the finest 
gentleman of his day, and the author of that code 
of all noble and knightly accomplishments, of per- 
fect courtesy and gentle bearing — " II Cortigiano ; " 
must have a place among our conjugal poets. He 
had married in 1516, Hypolita di Torrello, whose 
accomplishments, beauty, and illustrious birth, ren- 
dered her worthy of him. It appears, however, 
that her family, who were of Mantua, could not 
bear to part with her,* and that after her marriage, 
she remained in that city, while Castiglione was 
ambassador at Rome. This separation gave rise 
to a very impassioned correspondence ; and the 
tender regrets and remonstrances scattered through 
her letters, he transposed into a very beautiful 
poem, in the form of an epistle from his wife. It 
may be found in the appendix to Roscoe's Leo X, 
(No. 196.) Hypolita died in giving birth to a 
daughter, after a union of little more than three 
years, and left Castiglione for some time inconsola- 
ble. We are particularly told of the sympathy of 
the Pope and the Cardinals, on this occasion, and 
that Leo condoled with him in a manner equally 
anusual and substantial, by bestowing on him in* 
mediately a pension of two hundred gold crowns 

* Serassi. — Vita di Baldassare Castiglione. 



OR. DONNK AND HIS WIFK. 327 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

CONJUGAL POETKY, CONTINUED. 
STORT OF DR. DONNE AND HI3 WIFE. 

Mr next instance of conjugal poetry is takeu 
from the literary history of our own country, and 
founded on as true and touching a piece of romance 
as ever was taken from the page of real life. 

Dr. Donne, once so celebrated as a writer, now 
bo neglected, is more interesting for his matrimonial 
history, and for one little poem addressed to his 
wife, than for all his learned, metaphysical, and 
theological productions. As a poet, it is probable 
that even readers of poetry know little of him, ex- 
cept from the lines at the bottom of the pages in 
Pope's version, or rather translation, of his Satires, 
the very recollection of which is enough to " set 
one's ears on edge," and verify Coleridge's witty 
and imitative couplet, — 

Donne — whose muse on dromedary trots, — 
Twists iron pokers into true love knots. 

It is this inconceivable harshness of versification, 
which has caused Donne to be so little read, except 
by those who make our old poetry their study One 
of these critics has truly observed, that " there if 
•earce a writer in our language who has 60 tho* 



828 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

oughly mixed up the good and the bad together. 
What is good, is the result of truth, of passion, of 
a strong mind, and a brilliant wit ; what is bad, is 
the effect of a most perverse taste, and total want 
of harmony. No sooner has he kindled the fancy 
with a splendid thought, than it is as instantly 
quenched in a cloud of cold and obscure conceits 
no sooner has he touched the heart with a feeling 
or sentiment, true to nature and powerfully ex- 
pressed, than we are chilled or disgusted by ped- 
antry or coarseness. 

The events of Donne's various life, and the ro- 
mantic love he inspired and felt, make us recur to 
his works, with an interest and a curiosity, which, 
while they give a value to every beauty we can 
discover, render his faults more glaring — more pro 
voking — more intolerable. 

In his youth he lavished a considerable fortune 
in dissipation, in travelling, and, it may be added, 
m the acquisition of great and various learning. 
He then entered the service of Lord Chancellor 
Ellesmere, as secretary. Under the same roof 
resided Lady Ellesmere's niece, Anne Moore, a 
lovely and amiable woman. She was about nine- 
teen, and Donne was about thirty, handsome, lively, 
and polished by travel and study. They met con- 
stantly, and the result was a mutual attachment of 
the most ardent and romantic character. As they 
were continually together, and always in the pres- 
ence of watchful relations, (" ambushed around witt 
household spies," as he expresses it,) it could not long 



nu. o.»NNi \M) ins wiik. 32$ 

»e concealed. "The friends of both parties," savs 
Walton, M used much diligence and many arguments 
to kill or cool their affections for each other, bat in 

vain;" and the laily's lather, Sir George Moore, 

"knowing prevention to be the beat part of wis- 

ilom," eaine up to town in all ha-te.aml carried oil' 
liis daughter into the country. Hut his preventive 
wisdom came too late ; the lovers had been secretly 
married three wirks before. 

This precipitate step was perhaps excusable, 
from the known violence and sternness of Sir 
George's character. His daughter was well aware 
that his consent would never be voluntary; she 
preferred marrying without it, to marrying against 
•t ; and trusted to obtain his forgiveness when there 
was no remedy ; — a common mode of reasoning, 1 
believe, in such cases. Never perhaps was a youth- 
ful error of this description more bitterly punished 
— more deeply expiated — and so little repented of! 

The earl of Northumberland undertook to break 
the matter to Sir George, to reason with him on the 
subject; and to represent the excellent qualities 
of his son-in-law, and the duty of forgiveness, as a 
wise man, a father, and Christian. His intention 
wad benevolent, and we have reason to regret that 
his speech or letter has not been preserved; for 
(such is human inconsistency !) this very Earl of 
Northumberland never could forgive his own daugh- 
ter a similar disobedience * bit followed it with 

* Lady Lucy Percy, afterwards the fimous Countess of Carlisle 
taeu-ioiieil in p;ijjo 285. 



830 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

his curse, which he was with difficulty prevailed 
on to retract. His mediation failed : Sir George, 
on learning that his precautions came too late, burst 
into a transport of rage, the effect of which re- 
sembled insanity. He had sufficient interest in the 
arbitrary court of James, to procure the imprison- 
ment of Donne and the witnesses of his daughter's 
marriage ; and he insisted that his brother-in-la"w 
should dismiss the young man from his office,— his 
only support. Lord Ellesmere yielded with extreme 
reluctance, saying, " he parted with such a friend 
and such a secretary, as were a fitter servant for a 
King." Donne, in sending this news to his wife, 
signs his name with the quaint oddity, which was 
so characteristic of his mind, — John Donne, Anne 
Donne, — undone : and undone they truly were. As 
soon as he was released he claimed his wife ; but it 
was many months before they were allowed to meet 

Have we for this kept guard, like, spy o'er spy? 

Had correspondence whilst the foe stood by? 

Stolen (more to sweeten them) our many blisses 

Of meetings, conference, embracements, kisses ? 

Shadow'd with negligence our best respects? 

Varied our language through all dialects 

Of becks, winks, looks ; and often under boards, 

Spoke dialogues, with our feet far from our words? 

And after all this passed purgatory, 

Must sad divorce make us the vulgar story ? * 

At length this unkind father in some degree re» 
tented ; he suffered his daughter and her husband 

* Donne's Poems. 



nu. DONVE and BUfl wirr.. S31 

k> live together, bat he refused to contribute to 
their support; and they were reduced to the 
greatest distress. Domic had nothing. " His wifr 
had been curiously and plentifully educated; both 
their natures generous, accustomed to confer, not to 
receive courtesies ; " and when he looked on her 

who was to be the partner of his lot, he was filled 
with such Badness and apprehension as he could 
never have felt for himself alone.* 

In this situation they were invited into the house 

nf a generous kinsman, (Sir Francis Woolley,) who 
maintained them and their increasing family for 
several years, M t0 their mutual content " and un- 
diminished friendship.! Volumes could not say more 
in praise of both than this singular connection : — 
to bestow favors, so long continued and of such 
magnitude, with a grace which made them sit lightly 
on those who received them, and to preserve, under 
the weight of such obligation, dignity, indepen- 
dence, and happiness, bespeaks uncommon great- 
ness of spirit and goodness of heart and temper on 
ill sides. 

This close and domestic intimacy was dissolved 
mlv by the death of Sir Francis, who had previ 
susly procured a kind of reconcilement with the 
father of Mrs. Donne, and an allowance of about 
eighty pounds a year. They fell again into debt, 
and into misery ; and " doubtless," says old Walton, 
frith a quaint, yet eloquent simplicity, " their mar- 

* Walton's Lives. 

t Walton's Life of Donne. — Chalmers's Biography 



832 CONJUGAL POETRY 

riage had been attended with a heavy repentance, 
if God had not blessed them with so mutual and 
cordial affections, as, in the midst of their suffer- 
ings, made their bread of sorrow taste more pleas- 
antly than the banquets of dull and low-spirited* 
people." We find in some of Donne's letters, 
the most heart-rending pictures of family distress, 
mingled with the tenderest touches of devoted af- 
fection foi his amiable wife. " I write," he says, 
" from the fireside in my parlor, and in the noise 
of three gamesome children, and by the side of her, 
whom, because I have transplanted into a wretched 
fortune, I must labor to disguise that from her by 
all such honest devices, as giving her my company 
and discourse," &e. &c. 

And in another letter he describes himself, with 
all his family sick, his wife stupefied by her own 
and her children's sufferings, without money to 
purchase medicine, — " and if God should ease us 
with burials, I know not how to perform even that ; 
but I flatter myself that I am dying too, for I can- 
not waste faster than by such griefs. — From my 
hospital. John Donne." 

This is the language of despair ; but love was 
stronger than despair, and supported this affection- 
ate couple through all their trials. Add to mutual 
love the spirit of high honor and conscious desert 
for in the midst of this sad, and almost sordid miserj 
&nd penury, Donne, whose talents his contempora 
* i. e. low-minded. 



DR. DONNE and his wiik. 883 

lief acknowledged with admiration, refused to takt. 
orders and accept a benefice, from a scrapie of con 
pcience, od account of the irregular life he had led 
in his youthful years. 

But in (heir extremity, Providence raised them 
up another munificent friend. Sir Robert Drary 

received the whole family into his house, treated 
Donne with the most cordial respect and affection, 
and some time afterwards invited him to accom- 
pany him abroad. 

Donne had been married to his -wife seven years, 
during which they had Buffered every variety of 

wretchedness, except the greatest of all, — that of 
being separated. The idea of this first parting was 
beyond her fortitude ; she said, her "divining soul 
boded her some ill in his absence," and with tears 
she entreated him not to leave her. Her affection- 
ate husband yielded ; but Sir Robert Drary was 
urgent and would not be refused. Donne repre- 
sented to his wife all that honor and gratitude re- 
quired of him ; and she, too really tender, and too 
devoted to be selfish and unreasonable, yielded 
with u an unwilling willingness ;" yet, womanlike, 
she thought she could not bear a pain she had 
never tried, and was seized with the romantic idea 
of following him in the disguise of a page.* Jn a 
delicate and amiable woman, and a mother, it could 
\jave been but a momentary thought, suggested in 
die frenzy of anguish. It inspired, however, th« 

• Chalmers's Biography 



834 CONJUGAL . POETRY . 

r ollowing beautiful dissuasion, which her husband 
addressed to her. 

By our first strange and fatal interview; 
By all desires which thereof did ensue ; 
By our long-striving hopes ; hy that remorse 
Which my words' masculine persuasive force 
Begot in thee, and by the memory 
Of hurts which spies and rivals threaten' d me,— 
I calmly beg : but by thy father's wrath, 
By all pains which want and divorcement hath, 
I conjure thee ; — and all the oaths which I 
And thou have sworn to seal joint constancy, 
I here unswear, and overswear them thus : 
Thou shalt not love by means so dangerous. 
Temper, fair Love! Love's impetuous rage; 
Be my true mistress, not my feigned page. 
I'll go, and by thy kind leave, leave behind 
Thee, only worthy to nurse in my mind 
Thirst to come back. ! if thou die before, 
My soul from other lands to thee shall soar: 
Thy (else almighty) beauty cannot move 
Kage from the seas, not thy love teach them love, 
Nor tame wild Boreas' harshness : thou hast read 
How roughly he in pieces shivered 
Fair Orithea, whom he swore he loved. 
Fall ill or good, 'tis madness to have proved 
Dangers unurg'd: feed on this flattery, 
That absent lovers one in th' other be. 
Dissemble nothing, — not a boy, — nor change 
Thy body's habit nor mind: be not strange 
To thyself only : all will spy in thy face 
A blushing, womanly, discovering grace. 
When I am gone dream me some happiness, 
Nor let thy looks our long-hid love confess: 
Nor praise nor dispraise me; nor bless nor crurse 



DB. DONNE and HIS WIFE. BJM 

Openly lovn's force; nor in hod Aright thy nurse 
With midnight starting*, orying out, Oh ! eh ! 

Nurse, oh ! my love ifl slain ! I saw him go 
O'er the white Alps alone; I saw him, I, 
Assailed, ta'en, flght, Btabb'd, bleed, fall, mid die! 
Augur me hotter chance, except dread Jove 
Think it enough for me to have had thy love. 

I would not have the heart of one who couM 
read these lines, and think onlv of their ru^ed 

CO 

ityle, and faults of taste and expression. The su- 
perior power of truth and sentiment have immor- 
talized this little poem, and the occasion which 
gave it birth. The wife and husband parted, and 
he left with her another little poem, which he calls 
a " Valediction, forbidding to mourn." 

When Donne was at Paris, and still suffering un- 
der the grief of this separation, he saw, or fancied 
he saw, the apparition of his wife pass through the 
room in which he sat, her hair dishevelled and 
hanging down upon her shoulders, her face pale and 
mournful, and carrying in her arms a dead infant 
Sir Robert Drury found him a few minutes after- 
wards in such a state of horror, and his mind so 
impressed with the reality of this vision, that an 
express was immediately sent off to England, to 
inquire after the health of Mrs. Donne. She had 
been seized, after the departure of her husband 
with a premature confinement; had been at the 
point of death ; but was then out of danger, and 
recovering. 

This incident has been related by all Donne'i 



836 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

biographers, by some with infinite solemnity, bf 
others with sneering incredulity. I can speak from 
experience, of the power of the imagination to im- 
press us with a palpable sense of what is not, and 
cannot be ; and it seems to me that, in a man of 
Donne's ardent, melancholy temperament, brood- 
ing day and night on the one sad idea, a high state 
jf nervous excitement is sufficient to account for 
this impression, without having recourse to super- 
natural agency, or absolute disbelief. 

Donne, after several years of study, was pre- 
vailed on to enter holy orders ; and about four 
years afterwards, his amiable wife died in her 
twelfth confinement.* His grief was so overwhelm- 
ing, that his old friend Walton thinks it necessary 
thus to apologize for him : " Nor is it hard to think 
(being that passions may be both changed and 
heightened by accidents,) but that the abundant 
affection which was once betwixt him and her, who 
had so long been the delight of his eyes and the 
companion of his youth ; her, with whom he had 
divided so many pleasant sorrows and contented 
fears, as common people are not capable of, should 
be changed into a commensurable grief." He roused 
himself at length to his duties ; and preaching his 
first sermon at St. Clement's Church, in the Strand, 
where his beloved wife lay buried, he took for his 
text, Jer. iii. v. 1 : " Lo ! I am the man that hath 
Been affliction ; " and sent all his congregation home 
in tears. 

* In 1617. 



Dtt. DOMlfl and ins wife. 837 

• * * * • 

Among Donne's earlier poetry may be distin- 
guished the following little song, which has so much 
more harmony and elegance than his other pieces, 

that it is scarcely a lair specimen of his style. It 
was long popular, and I can remember, when a 
child, hearing it sung to very beautiful music. 

Send home my long stray' d eyes to me, 
Which, oh! too long have dwelt on thee! 
But if from thee they've learnt such ill, 

Such forced fashions 

And false passions, 

That they be 

Made by thee 
Fit for no good sight — keep them still! 

Send home my harmless heart again, 
Which no unworthy thought could stain I 
But if it hath been taught by thine 

To make jestings 

Of protestings, 

To forget both 

Its word and troth, 
Keep it still — 'tis none of mine ! 

Perhaps it may interest some readers to add, that 
Donne's famous lines, which have been quoted 
%d infinitum, — 

The pure and eloquent blood 
Spoke in her ;heeks, and so distinctly wrought, 
Ye might have almost said her body thought . 

Irere not written on his wife, but on Elizabeth 
22 



588 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

Drury, ^he only daughter of his patron and friend, 
Sir Robert Drury. She was the richest heiress in 
England, the wealth of her father being considered 
almost incalculable ; and this, added to her singular 
beauty, and extraordinary talents and acquire- 
ments, rendered her so popularly interesting, that 
she was considered a fit match for Henry, Prince 
of Wales. She died in her sixteenth year. 

Dr. Donne and his wife were maternal ancestors 
of the poet Cowper. 



CHAPTER XXVH. 

CONJUGAL POETRY, CONTINUED. 

habington's castara. 

One of the most elegant monuments ever raised 
by genius to conjugal affection, was Habington's 
Castara. 

William Habington, who ranks among the most 
graceful of our old minor poets, was a gentleman 
of an ancient Roman Catholic family in Worcester- 
ihire, and born in 1605.* On his return from his 

* It was the mother of William Habington who addressed to 
oer brother, Lord Mounteagle, that extraordinary letter which 
led to the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot.— Nash's Histoiy of 
Worcestershire. 



:iAHi\i; h>\\ cas i \i: v. 339 

travels, he s;,w and bred Lucy Berbert, the 
daughter of Lord Powis, and granddaughter of the 
Karl of Northumberland. Bhe was far his superior 
in birth, being descended, on both sides, from the 
noble. t blood iii England; and her haughty rela- 
tions at first Opposed their union. Ii was, ho v. 

merely that degree of opposition, without which 

** "Course of true love would have run too 
smooth." It was just sufficient to pique the ardor 
of the lover, and prove the worth and constancy 
of her he loved. The history of their attachment 
has none of the painful interest which hangs round 
that of Donne and his wife: it is a picture of pure 
and peaceful happiness, and of mutual tenderness, 
on which the imagination dwells with a soft com- 
placency and unalloyed pleasure; with nothing of 
romance but what was borrowed from the elegant 
mind and playful fancy, which heightened and 
embellished the delightful reality. 

If Habington had not been born a poet, a tomb- 
stone in an obscure country church would have 
been the only memorial of himself and his Castara. 
" She it was who animated his imagination with 
tenderness and elegance, and filled it with image* 
Of beauty, purified by her feminine delicacy from 
all grosser alloy." In return, he may be allowed 
to exult in the immortality he has given her. 

Thy vows are heard! and thy Castara's name 
Is writ as fair i' the register of fame, 
As the anient beauties wliioh translated aw 
By poets up to heaven— each there a star. 



540 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

***** 
Fix'd in Love's firmament no star shall shine 
So nobly fair, so purely chaste as thine ! 

The collection of poems which Habington dedi* 
Bated to his Castara, is divided into two parts 
those written before his marriage he has entitled 
" The Mistress," those written subsequently, " The 
Wife." 

He has prefixed to the whole an introduction in 
prose, written with some quaintness, but more feel- 
ing and elegance, in which he claims for himself 
the honor of being the first conjugal poet in our 
language. To use his own words : " Though I 
appear to strive against the stream of the best wits 
in erecting the same altar to chastity and love, 1 
will, for one, adventure to do well without a prec- 
edent." 

Habington had, however, been anticipated, as we 
have seen, by some of the Italian poets whom he 
has imitated : he has a little of the recherche and 
affectation of their school, and is not untinctured 
by the false taste of his day. He has not great 
power, nor much pathos; but these defects are 
redeemed by a delicacy of expression uncommon 
at that time ; by the interest he has thrown round 
a love as pure as its object, and by the most exqui- 
site touches of fancy, sentiment, and tenderness. 

Without expressly naming his wife in his prefa* 
tory remarks, he alludes to her very beautifully 
and exults, with a modest triumph, in the value o/ 
his rich possession. 



B LBING i <>\'> c \s i LB \. 341 

" How unhappy Boever I may be in the elocution, 
1 am lore the theme is worthy enough, * * * Nop 
was my invention ever sinister from the straight 
way of chastity ; and when love builds upon thai 
rock, it may safely contemn the battery of the 
waves, ami the threatenings of the wind. Since 
time, thai makes a mockery of the finest structures, 
shall itself be mined before thai be demolished. 
Thus was the foundation laid; and though my eye, 

in its BUTVey, was satisfied even to curiosity, yet 
did not my search rest there. The alabaster, ivory, 
porphyry, jet, that Lent an admirable beauty to the 
outward building, entertained me with but half 
pleasure, since they stood there only to make sport 
for ruin. But when my soul grew acquainted with 
the owner of that mansion, I found that oratory 
was dumb when it began to speak her." 

He then describes her wisdom ; her wit ; hex 
innocence, — " so unvitiated by conversation with 
the world, that the subtle-witted of her sex would 
have termed it ignorance ; " her modesty " so 
timorous, it represented a besieged city standing 
watchfully on her guard : in a word, all those 
virtues which should restore woman to her primi- 
tive state of virtue, fully adorned her." He then 
prettily apologizes for this indiscreet rhetoric on 
luch a subject. " Such," he says, "I fancied her; 
for to say she is, or was such, were to play the mer- 
shant, and boast too much of *he value of tba 
jewel I possess, but have no mind to part with." 

He concludes with this just, yet modest appreciar 



342 CONJUGAL POETKY. 

tion of himself, — *'* If not too indulgent to what is 
mine own, I think even these verses will have that 
proportion in the world's opinion, that heaven hath 
allotted me in fortune, — not so high as to be 
wondered at, nor so low as to be contemned/' 

In the description of " The Mistress," are 
some little touches inimitably graceful and compli- 
mentary. Though couched in general terms, it is 
of course a portrait of Lucy Herbert, such as she 
appeared to him in the days of their courtship, and 
fondly recalled and dwelt upon, when she had been 
many years a wife and a mother. He represents 
her " as fair as Nature intended her, helpt, per- 
haps, to a more pleasing grace by the sweetness of 
education, not by the slight of art." This discrim- 
ination is delicately drawn. — He continues, " she is 
young ; for a woman, past the delicacy of her 
spring, may well move to virtue by respect, never 
by beauty to affection. In her carriage, sober, 
thinking her youth expresseth life enough, without 
the giddy motion fashion of late hath taken up." 
■ — (This was early in the reign of the grave and 
correct Charles the First. What would Habington 
have said of the flaunting, fluttering, voluble beau- 
ties of Charles the Second's time ?) 

He extols the melody of her voice, her knowl- 
edge of music, and her grace in the dance : above 
all, he dwells on her retiring modesty, the favorite 
theme of his praise in prose and verse, which seemi 
to have been the most striking part of her charao 
ler, and her greatest charm in the eyes of hej 



BABUTQTON'fl l 181 \i:a. 841 

lover. He concludes, with the beautiful sentiment 
I have chosen as a motto to this little book. — 

* Only she, who hath as great a share in virtue as 

in beauty, deserves a ooble love to serve her, and 

;i true poerie to Bpeak her ! " 
The poems are all short, generally in the form 

of sonnets, if that name can be properly applied to 
all poems of fourteen lines, whatever the rhyth- 
mical arrangement. The subjects of these, and 
their quaint expressive titles, form a kind of chron- 
icle of their loves, in which every little incident is 
commemorated. Thus we have, " To Castara, 
inquiring why I loved her." — " To Castara, softly 
singing to herself." " To Castara, leaving him on 
the approach of night." — 

What should we fear, Castara? the cool atr 
That's fallen in love, and wantons in thy hair, 
Will not betray our whispers: — should I steal 
A nectar' d kiss, the wind dares not reveal 
The treasure I possess! 

u To Castara, on being debarred her presence," 
(probably by her father, Lord Powis.) — 

Banish' d from you, I charged the nimble wind, 
My unseen messenger, to speak my mind 
In amorous whispers to you ! 

" Upon her intended journey into the country." — 

* Upon Seymors," (a house near Marlow, where 
Castara resided with her parents, and where, it 
tppears, he was not allowed to visit her.) — ' On a 



844 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

trembling kiss she had granted him on her depar- 
ture." The commencement of this is beautiful : 

The Arabian wind, whose breathing gently blows 
Purple to the violet, blushes to the rose, 
Did never yield an odor such as this ! 
Why are you then so thrifty of a kiss, 
Authorized even by custom ? Wby doth fear 
So tremble on your lip, my lip being near? 

Then we have, " To Castara, on visiting her in 
the night." — This alludes to a meeting of the 
lovers, at a time they were debarred from each 
other's society. 

The following are more exquisitely graceful than 
iny thing in Waller, yet much in his style. 

TO EOSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA. 

Ye blushing virgins happy are 
In the chaste nunnery of her breast ; 

For he'd profane so chaste a fair 
Who e'er should call it Cupid's nest. 

Transplanted thus, how bright ye grow 1 

How rich a perfume do ye yield ! 
In some close garden, cowslips so 

Are sweeter than i' the open field. 

In those white cloisters live secure, 
From the rude blasts of wanton breath 

Each hour more innocent and pure, 
Till ye shall wither into death. 

Then that which living gave ye room, 
Your glorious sepulchre shall bey 



BASING ion'.- C \>i Ai; v. 345 

There needs no marble for :i tomb, — 
That breast hath marble. 0660 t<> DM I 

The epistle to Castara'a mother, Lady Kleanor 

Powis, who appears to have looked kindly on their 
lo\e, contains some very beautiful linos, in which 
he asserts the diantereBtedneas of his affection for 
Castara, rich as she is in fortune, and derived from 
the blood of Charlemagne. 

My love is envious ! would Castara were 
The daughter of some mountain cottager, 
Who, with his toil worn out, could dying leave 
Her no more dower than what she did receive 
From bounteous Nature; her would I then lead 
To the temple, rich in her own wealth; her head 
Crowned with her hair's fair treasure; diamonds in 
Her brighter eyes; soft ermines in her skin, 
Each India in her cheek, Sec. 

This first part closes with " The description of 
Castara," which is extended to several stanzas, of 
unequal merit The following compose in them- 
lelves a sweet picture : 

Like the violet, which alone 
Prospers in some happy shade, 

My Castara lives unknown. 
To no looser eye betray'd. 

For she's to herself untrue 

Who delights i' the public view. 
* * * 

Such her beauty, as no arts 
Have enrich' d with borrcw d grace. 



546 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

Her high birth no pride imparts, 

For she blushes in her place. 
Folly boasts a glorious blood — 
She is noblest, being good ! 

* * * 

She her throne makes reason climb, 
While wild passion captive lie ; 

And each article of time 
Her pure thoughts to heaven fly. 

All her vows religious be — 

And her love she vows to me ! 

The second part of these poems, dedicated to 
Castara as " the Wife," have not less variety *nd 
beauty, though there were, of course, fewer inci- 
dents to record. The first Sonnet, " to Castara, 
now possest of her marriage," beginning " This 
day is ours," &c, has more fancy and poetry than 
tenderness. The lines to Lord Powis, the father 
of Castara, on the same occasion, are more beauti- 
ful and earnest, yet rich in fanciful imagery. Lord 
Powis, it must be remembered, had opposed their 
union, and had been, with difficulty, induced to 
give his consent. The following lines refer to 
this; and Habington asserts the purity and un- 
felfishness of his attachment. 

Nor grieve, my Lord, 'tis perfected. Before 

Afflicted seas sought refuge on the shore, 

From the angry north wind ; ere the astonish'd spring 

Heard in the air the feathered people sing; 

Ere time had motion, or the sun obtained 

Sis province o'er the day- -this wf,s ordained. 



HABXira POlTi C kBTAH v. 343 

Nor think in httf I Muted wealth or blood, 

Or more uncertain hopes; for had I stood 

On the highest ground of fortune,— the world kx<nrn 

No greatness but what waited on my tlirone — 

And she had Only had that face and mind, 

I with myself, had th' earth to her resigned. 

In virtuo there's an empire I 

Sere I rest, 
As all things to my power subdued; to me 
There's naught beyond this, the whole world is she ! 

On the anniversary of their wedding-day, hi 
iius addresses her : — 

love's anniversary. 

Thou art return'd (great light) to that blest hcur 
In which I first by marriage, (sacred power!) 
Joined with Castara hearts; and as the same 
Thy lustre is, as then, — so is our flame; 
Which had increased, but that by Love's decree, 
'Twas such at first, it ne'er could greater be. 
But tell me, (glorious lamp,) in thy survey 
Of things below thee, what did not decay 
By age or weakness ? I since that have seen 
The rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow green, 
And wither wrinkled. Even thyself dost yield 
Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher^ 
But virtuous love is one sweet endless fire. 

'• T; Castara, on the knowledge of love," ii 
peculiarly elegant ; it was, probably, suggested by 
some speculative topics of conversation, discussed 
m the literary circle he had drawn around him af 
Hindlip* 

• The family seat of the Uabingtons, in Worcester! hir*. 



148 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

Where sleeps the north wind when the south m*.pire» 
Life in the Spring, and gathers into quires 
The scatter'd nightingales; whose subtle ears 
Heard first the harmonious language of the spheres? 
Whence hath the stone magnetic force t' allure, 
Th' enamor'd iron; from a seed impure, 
Or natural, did first the mandrake grow ; 
What power in the ocean makes it flow; 
What strange materials is the azure sky- 
Compacted of; of what its brightest eye 
The ever flaming sun; what people are 
In th' unknown worlds; what worlds in every start- 
Let curious fancies at these secrets rove ; 
Castara, what we know we'll practise — love. 

The " Lines on her fainting ; " those on " The 
fear of Death,"— 

Why should we fear to melt away in death? 
May we but die together ! &c. 

On her sigh, — 

Were but that sigh a penitential breath 
That thou art mine, it would blow with it death, 
T' inclose me in my marble, where I'd be 
Slave to the tyrant worms to set thee free ! 

His self-congratulation on his own happiness, in 
his epistle to his uncle, Lord Morley, are all in 
the same strain of gentle and elegant feeling. The 
following are among the last addressed to his wife 

Give me a heart, where no impure 

Disorder' d passion rage; 

Which jealousie doth not obscure. 



tia!h\<; TON'S 0AS1 u;a. 849 

Nor vanity V expense engage] 
Nor wooed to madneea by quaint oathea, 
\)r the fine rhetoriok of oloathes; 
Which not the softness of t lie age 

To vice or folly <loth decline; 

Give me that heart, Castara, for 'tis th ^e 

Take thou :i heart, where no now look 
Provokes new appetite; 

With no fresh charm of heauty took, 

Or wanton stratagem of wit; 

Not idly wandering here and there, 

Led by an am'rous eye or ear; 

Aiming each beanteooj mark to hit; 

Which virtue doth to one confine; 

Take thou that heart, Castara, for 'tis irine. 

It was owing to his affection for his wife, as well 
as his own retired and studious habits, that Ilabmg- 
ton lived through the civil wars without taking any 
active part on either side. It should seem, that, at 
•uch a period, no man of a lofty and generous 
Bpirit could have avoided joining the party or 
principles, either of Falkland and Grandison, or 
of Hampden and Hutchinson. But Habington's 
family had already suffered, in fortune and in 
fame by their interference with state matters ; 
and without, in any degree, implicating himself 
with either party, he passed through those stormy 
and eventful times, 

As on 3 who dreams 
Of idleness, in groves ETysian; 

and died in the first year of the Protector7*«, 1654 



350 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

I cannot discover the date of Castara's death ; but 
Bhe died some years before her husband, leaving 
only one son. 

There is one among the poems of the second 
part of Castara, which I cannot pass without re- 
mark ; it is the Elegy which Habington addressed 
to his wife, on the death of her friend, Yenetia 
Digby, the consort of the famous Sir Kenelm 
Digby. She was the most beautiful woman of her 
time : even Lord Clarendon steps aside from the 
gravity of history, to mention " her extraordinary 
beauty, and as extraordinary fame." Her picture 
at Windsor is, indeed, more like a vision of ideal 
loveliness, than any form that ever trod the earth.* 
She was descended from the Percies and the 
Stanleys, and was first cousin to Habington's Cas- 
tara, their mothers being sisters. The magnificent 
spirit of her enamored husband, surrounded her 
with the most gorgeous adornments that ever were 
invented by vanity or luxury : and thus she was, 
one day, found dead on her couch, her hand sup- 
porting her head, in the attitude of one asleep. 
Habington's description exactly agrees with the 
picture at Althorpe, painted after her death by 
Vandyke. 

* There are also four pictures of her at Strawberry Hill, and 
one of her mother, Lady Lucy Percy, exquisitely beautiful. At 
Sothurst, there is a picture of her, and a bust, which, after her 
death, her husband placed in his chamber, with this tender and 
beautiful inscription : 

Uzorem amare vivam, voluptas; defunctam, religio 



BABINGTOX'8 CAST AAA. 551 

What's honor hut a hatchment? what is her« 
Of Percy left, or Stanley, namei onotl dear 

To virtue? 

Or what aviiils her that she onco was led 

A glorious bride to valiant Digby'a bed? 

She, when wliatevcr rare 
The either Indies boast, lay richly spread 
For hor to wear, lay on her pillow dead ! 

There is no piercing the mystery which hangi 
round the story of this beautiful creature : that a 
Itigma rested on her character, and that she was 
exculpated from it, whatever it might be, seems 
proved, by the doves and serpents introduced into 
several portraits of her; the first, emblematical of 
her innocence, and the latter, of her triumph over 
slander : and not less by these lines of Ilabington. 
If Venetia Digby had been, as Aubrey and others 
insinuate, abandoned to profligacy, and a victim to 
her husband's jealousy, Ilabington would scarce 
have considered her noble descent and relationship 
to his Castara as a matter of pride ; or her death 
as a subject of tender condolence ; or the awful 
mauner of it a peculiar blessing of Heaven, so- J 
the reward of her virtues. 

Come likewise, my Castara, and behold 
What blessings ancient prophecy foretold. 
Bestow'd on her in death; she past away 
So sweetly from the world as if her clay 
Lay only down to slumber. Then forbear 
To let on hor blest ashes fall a tear: 
Or if thou'rt too much woman, softly weep, 
Lest grief distort) the silence of her sleep ' 



S52 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

The author of the introduction to the curioua 
Memoirs of Sir Ken elm Digby, has proved the 
absolute falsehood of some of Aubrey's assertions, 
and infers the improbability of others. But these 
beautiful lines by Habington, seem to have escaped 
his notice ; and they are not slight evidence in 
Venetia's favor. On the whole, the mystery re- 
mains unexplained ; a cloud has settled forever on 
the true story of this extraordinary creature 
Neither the pen nor the sword of her husband 
could entirely clear her fame in her own age : he 
could only terrify slander into silence, and it died 
away into an indistinct murmur, of which the echo 
alone has reached our time. — But this is enough : — 
the echo of an echo could whisper into naught a 
woman's fair name. The idea of a creature so 
formed in the prodigality of nature ; so completely 
and faultlessly beautiful ; so nobly born and allied ; 
so capable (as she showed herself on various occa- 
sions) of high generous feeling,* of delicacy ,f of 
fortitude,:}: of tenderness ; § depraved by her own 
vices, or " done to death by slanderous tongues," 
is equally painful and heart-sickening. The image 
of the aspic trailing its slime and its venom over 
the bosom of Cleopatra, is not more abhorrent. 

* Memoirs of Sir Kenelm Digby, pp. 211, 224. Introduction 
,>.27. 
t Memoirs, pp. 205, 213. Introduction, p. 28. 
t Memoirs, p. 254. § Memoirs, p 806. 



THK TWO EAPPL **« 

CHAPTER XXVIIL 

CONJUGAL POETRY, CONTINUED. 
THE TWO ZAPPI. 

We find anions the minor poets of Italy, a 
charming, and I believe B singular instance of a 
husband and a wife, both highly gifted, devoting 
their talents to celebrate each other. These were 
(liambattista Zappi,* the famous Roman advocate, 
and his wife Faustina, the daughter of Carlo Mar- 
atti, the painter. 

Zappi, after completing his legal studies at Bo- 
logna, came to reside at Rome, where he distin- 
guished himself in his profession, and was one of 
the founders of the academy of the Arcadii. 
Faustina Maratti was many years younger than her 
husband, and extremely beautiful : she was her 
father's favorite model for his Madonnas, Muses, 
and Vestal Virgins. From a description of her, 
in an Epithalamium f on her marriage, it appears 
that her eyes and hair were jet black, her features 
regular, and her complexion pale and delicate ; a 
style of beauty which, in its perfection, is almost 
peculiar to Italy. To the mutual tenderness of 

• Born at Imola, 1668; died at Rome, 1719. 
t See the Epithalamium on her marriage with Zappi, preflsad 
« teir work*. 



3f>4 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

these married lovers, we owe some of the most ele- 
gant among the lighter Italian lyrics. Zappi, in a 
Sonnet addressed to his wife some time after their 
union, reminds her, with a tender exultation, of 
the moment they first met ; when she swept by 
him in all the pride of beauty, careless or uncon- 
scious of his admiration, — and he bowed low before 
her, scarcely daring to lift his eyes on the charms 
that were destined to bless him ; " Who," he says, 
" would then have whispered me, the day will 
come when you will smile to remember her dis- 
dain, for all this blaze of beauty was created for 
you alone ! " or would have said to her, " Know 
you who is destined to touch that virgin heart ? 
Even he, whom you now pass by without even a 
look ! Such are the miracles of love ! " 

La prima volta ch' io m' avenni in qtiella 
Ninfa, che il cor m' accese, e ancor l'accende, 
Io dissi, e donna o dea, ninfa si bella ? 
Giunse dal prato, o pur dal ciel discende? 

La fronte inchino in umil atto, ed ella 
La merce pur d'un sguardo a me non rende; 
Qual vagheggiata in cielo, o luna, o stella, 
Che segue altera il suo viaggio, e splende. 

Chi detto avesse a me, " costci ti sprez^a, 
Ma un di ti riderai del suo rigore ! 
Che nacque sol per te tanta bellezza." 

Chi detto avesse ad ella : " 11 tuo Dei core 
Sai chi l'avra? Costui ch' or non t' apprezza " 
Or negate i miracoli d'Amore! 



TIIK fWO ZAIMT. 855 

The first Sonnet in Faustina's Canzoniero, 

Doles BoOievo delta omans cure, 

ib an eulogium on bar bnsband, and describes her 
own confiding tenderness. It is full of grace and 
iweetness, and feminine feeling: 

Soavo cortes\ a vczzosi accenti, 
Virtu, scinio, valor d'alma gentile, 
Spogliato hanno '1 mio cor d'ogni timore; 

Or tu gli afletti miei pari innocenti 
PaSSJ cortese, e non cangiar tuo stile 
Dolce sollievo de' miei mali, amorel 

Others are of a melancholy character; and one or 
two allude to the death of an infant son, whom she 
tenderly laments. But the most finished of all her 
poems is a Sonnet addressed to a lady whom her 
husband bad formerly loved;* the sentiment of 
which is truly beautiful and feminine : never was 
jealousy so amiably, or so delicately expressed. 
There is something very dramatic and picturesque 
in the apostrophe which Faustina addresses to her 
rival, and in the image of the lady " casting down 
her large bright eyes ; " as well as affecting in the 
dbrupt recoil of feeling in the last lines. 

* Probably the same he had celebrated under the name of 
Hill, and who married another. Zappi'a Sonnet to this lady 
M Ardo per Filii," is elaborately elegant ; c^arkling and poiDt*4 
Is a pyramid of gains. 



156 CONJUGAL POETRY 

SONNETTO. 

Donna! cbe tanto almio bel soi piacestH 
Che ancor de' pregi tuoi parla sovente, 
Lodando, ora il bel crine, ora il ridente 
Tuo labbro, ed ora i saggi detti onesti. 

Dimmi, quando le voci a lui volgesti 
Tacque egli mai, qual uom cbe nulla sente? 
O le turbate luci alteramente, 
(Come a me volge) a te volger vedesti? 

De tuoi bei lumi, a le due chiare faci 
Io so ch' egli arse un tempo, e so cbe allora— 
Ma tu declini al suol gli occbi vivaci ! 

Veggo il rossor cbe le tue guance infioraj 
Parla, rispondi ! Ah non rispondi ! taci 
Taci ! se mi vuoi dir ch' ei t' ama ancora ! 

TRANSLATION. 

Lady, that once so charm'd my life's fair Sun,* 

That of thy beauties still he talketh oft, — 

Thy mouth, fair hair, and words discreet and soft. 

Speak! when thou look'dst, was he from silence won? 

Or, did he turn those sweet and troubled eyes 

On thee, and gaze as now on me he gazeth ? 

(For ah ! I know thy love was then the prize, 

And then he felt the grace that still he praiseth.) 

But why dost thou those beaming glances turn 

Thus downwards ? Ah ! I see (against thy will) 

All o'er thy cheek the crimsoning blushes burn. 

Speak out ! oh answer me ! — yet, no, no, — stay ! 

Be dumb, be silent, if thou need'st must say 

That he who once adored thee, loves thee still, f 

» " H mio bel sol " is a poetical term of endearment, which ft 
tot easy to reduce gracefully into English. 
t Translated by a friend. 



nil. rWO ZAPPI. 357 

Neither Zappi nor his wife irere antho 
profoaaion; her poemi are fewj and all seem ta 
low from some incident or feeling, which awakened 
her genius, and caused that " craving of the heart 

and the fancy to break out into voluntary song, 
which men call inspiration." She became a mem- 
ber of the Arcadia, under the pastoral namo of 
Aglaura Cidonia; and it is remarkable, that though 
Bhe survived her husband many years, I cannot 
find any poem referring to her loss, nor of a subse- 
quent date; neither did she marry again, though 
in the prime of her life and beauty. 

Zappi was a great and celebrated lawyer, and 
his legal skill raised him to an office of trust, under 
the Pontificate of Clement XI. In one of his 
Sonnets, which has great sweetness and picturesque 
effect, he compares himself to the Venetian Gon- 
dolier, who in the calm or the storm pours forth 
his songs on the Lagune, careless of blame or 
praise, asking no auditors but the silent seas and 
the quiet moon, and seeking only to " unburthen 
his full soul " in lays of love and joy — 

II Gondolier, sebben la notte imbruna, 
Remo non posa, e fende il mar spumante; 
Lieto cantando a un bel raggio di Luna — 
"Intanto Erminia infra 1' ombrose piante." 
That Zappi could be sublime, is proved by his 
well-known Sonnet on the Moses of Michel An- 
gelo; but his forte is the graceful and the gay. 
Hi9 Anacreontics, and particularly his little drink 
fcg song, 

Come faro ? Far6 cos.. ! 



&0H CONJUGAL POETRY. 

lire very elegant, and almost equal to ChiaDrerai 
It is difficult to sympathize with English drinking 
songs, and all the vulgar associations of flowing 
bowls, taverns, three times three, and the table in 
a roar. An Italian Brindisi transports us at once 
among flasks and vineyards, guitars and dances, a 
dinner al fresco, a group a la Stothard. It is all 
the difference between the ivy-crowned Bacchus, 
and the bloated Silenus. " Bumper, Squire Jones/' 
or " Waiter, bring clean glasses," do not sound so 
well as 

Damigella 
Tutta bella 
Versa, versa, il bel vino I &o. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

CONJUGAL POETRY, CONTINUED. 

LOED LYTTELTON. 

Lord Lyttelton has told us in a very sweet 
line, 

How much the vrife is dearer than the bride. 

But his Lucy Fortescue deserves more than a 
mere allusion, en passant. That Lord Lyttelto* 



LOBD i-v ii 1. 1. TON. 35U 

still remembered and road as a poet, is solely for 

her sake: it is she who has made the shades of 
Hagley classic ground, and hallowed fa precincti 
In- tlu' remembrance of the fair and gentle being, 

the tender woman, wife, and mother, who in the 
prime of youth and loveliness, melted like a crea- 
ture of air and light from her husband's arms, 

"And left him on tais earth disconsolate! " 

That the verses she inspired are still popular, is 
owing to the power of truth, which has here given 
lasting interest to what were otherwise mediocre. 
Lord Lyttelton was not much of a poet ; but his 
love was real ; its object was real, beautiful, and 
good : thus buoyed up, in spite of his own faults 
and the change of taste, he has survived the rest 
of the rhyming gentry of his time, who wrote 
epigrams on fans and shoe-buckles, — songs to the 
Duchess of this and Countess of that — and elegies 
to Miras, Delias, and Chloes. 

Lucy Fortescue, daughter of Hugh Fortescue, 
Esq., of Devonshire, and grand -daughter of Lord 
Ayliner, was born in 1718. She was about two 
and-twenty when Lord Lyttelton first became at- 
tached to her, and he was in his thirty-first year : 
in person and character, she realized all he had 
laagined in his "Advice to Belinda." 

" Without, all beauty— and all peace within. 

***** 
Blest is the mail, and worthy to be blest, 
Whose soul, entire by him she loves posseat. 



860 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

Feels every vanity in fondness lost, 
And asks no power, but that of pleasing most: 
Hers is the bliss, in just return to prove 
The honest warmth of undissembled love ; 
For her, inconstant man might cease to range, 
And gratitude forbid desire to change." 

To the more peculiar attributes of her sex,— • 
beauty and tenderness, — she united all the advan? 
tages of manner, — 

Polite as she in courts had ever been; 

and wit, — the only wit that becomes a woman, — 

That temperately bright 
With inoffensive light 
All pleasing shone, nor ever past 
The decent bounds that wisdom's sober hand 
And sweet benevolence's mild command, 
And bashful modesty before it cast. 

Her education was uncommon for the time ; for 
then, a woman, who to youth and elegance and 
beauty, united a familiar acquaintance with the 
literature of her own country, French, Italian, and 
the classics, was distinguished among her sex. She 
had many suitors, and her choice was equally to 
her own honor and that of her lover. Lord Lyt- 
telton was not rich ; his father, Sir Thomas Lyttel- 
ton, being still alive. He had, perhaps, never 
dreamed of the coronet which late in life descended 
<an his brow : and far from possessing a captivating 
exterior, he was extremely plain in person, " of a 



rOBD LTTTKLTON. ."nil 

feeble, ill-compacted figure, and a meagre sallow 
Boantenance." * Bui talents, elegance of mind, 
and devoted affection, had the influence they ought 
to haw, and generally do possess, in the mind of a 

woman. We arc told that OUT BOX*! "earliest, 

latest care, — our heart's supreme ambition," is M to 
be fair." Kven .Madame do Stael would have 
given half her talents for half Madame Recamier'i 
beauty! and why? because the passion of our 
sex is to please and to be loved; and men have 
taught as, that in nine cases out of ten we are 
valued merely ibr our personal advantages: they 
can scarce believe that women, generally speaking, 
are so indifferent to the mere exterior of a man, — 
that it has so little power to interest their vanity or 
affections. Let there be something for their hearts 
to honor, and their weakness to repose on, and 
feeling and imagination supply the rest. In this 
respect, the " gentle lady married to the Moor," 
who saw her lover's visage in his mind, is the type 
of our sex ; — the instances are without number. 
The Frenchman triumphs a little too much en 
petit maitre, who sings, 

Grands Dieux, combien elle est joliel 
Et moi, je suis, je suis si laid ! 

He might have spared his exultation : if he had 
sense, and spirit, and tenderness, he had all that is 
necessary to please a woman, who is worthy to bs 
©leased. 

• Johnson^s Life of Lrrd Lyttelton. 



862 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

Personal vanity in a woman, however misdi- 
rected, arises from the idea, that our power with 
those we wish to charm, is founded on beauty as a 
female attribute ; it is never indulged but with a 
reference to another — it is a means, not an end. 
Personal vanity in a man is sheer unmingled ego- 
tism, and an unfailing subject of ridicule and con- 
tempt with all women — be they wise or foolish. 

To return from this long tirade to Lucy Fortes- 
cue. — After the usual fears and hopes, the impa- 
tience and anxious suspense of a long courtship,* 
Lord Lyttelton won his Lucy, and thought himself 
olest — and was so. Five revolving years of hap- 
piness seemed pledges of its continuance, and " the 
wheels of pleasure moved without the aid of hope :" 
it was at the conclusion of the fifth year, he wrote 
the lines on the anniversary of his marriage, in 
which he exults in his felicity, and in the posses- 
sion of a treasure, which even then, though he 
knew it not, was fading in his arms. 

Whence then this strange increase of joy? 
He, only he can tell, who, matched like me, 
(If such another happy man there be,) 
Has by his own experience tried 
How much the wife is dearer than the bride! 

Six months afterwards, his Lucy was seized witk 

* See in his Poems, — the lines beginning 

On Thames's banks a gentle youth 
For Lucy sighed with matchless truth, 

Torn shape, your lips, your eyes are still the same. 



i. oki) i.y i i i.i. TOW. 865 

the illnesh of which she died in her twenty-ninth 
year, leaving three infante, the eldest not four 
years old.* As there arc people who strangely 
unite, as inseparable, the ideas of fiction and rhyme, 
and doubt the sincerity of her husband's grief, be- 
cause he wrote a monody on her memory, he shall 
speak for himself in prose. The following is an 
extract from his letter to his father, written two 
days before her death. 

" I believe God supports me above my own 
strength, for the sake of my friends who are con- 
cerned for me, and in return for the resignation 

o 
with which I endeavor to submit to his will. If it 

please Him, in his infinite mercy, to restore my 
dear wife to me, I shall most thankfully acknowl- 
edge his goodness ; if not, I shall most humbly en- 
dure his chastisement, which I have too much 
deserved. These are the sentiments with which 
my mind is replete ; but as it is still a most bitter 
cup, how my body will bear it, if it must not pass 
from me, it is impossible for me to foretell ; but I 
hope the best. — Jan. 17th, 1742." 

I imagine Dr. Johnson meant a sneer at Lord Lyt- 
telton, when he says laconically, — " his wife died, 
and he solaced himself by writing a long monody 
on her memory." — In these days we might naturally 

•Her son was that eccentric and profligate Lord Lyttelton 
whose supernatural death-bed horrors have been the subject of 
K> much speculation. He left no children. 

The present Earl of Mountnorris, (so distinguished for hij 
Oriental travels when Lord Va'entia,) is the grandson of Lucj 
fortescue. 



564 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

exclaim against a widowed husband who should 
solace himself by apostrophes to the Muses and 
Graces, and bring in the whole Aonian choir, — 
Pindus and Castalia, Aganippe's fount, and Thes- 
pian vales; the Clitumnus and the Hlissus, and 
such Pagan and classical embroidery. — What 
should we have thought of Lord Byron's famous 
" Fare thee well," if conceived in this style ? — but 
such was the poetical vocabulary of Lord Lyttel- 
ton's day: and that he had not sufficient genius 
and originality to rise above it is no argument 
against the sincerity of his grief. Petrarch and 
his Laura (apropos to all that has ever been sung 
or said of love for five hundred years) are called 
in a very commonplace strain, from their " Elysian 
bowers ; " and then follow some lines of real and 
touching beauty, because they owe nothing to art 
or effort, but are the immediate result of truth and 
feeling. He is still apostrophizing Petrarch. 

What were, alas ! thy woes compar'd to mine? 
To thee thy mistress in the blissful band 
Of Hymen never gave her hand ; 
The joys of wedded love were never thine I 

In thy domestic care 

She never bore a share ; 

Nor with endearing art 

Would heal thy wounded heart 
Of every secret grief that fester' d there: 
Nor did her fond affection on the bed 
Of sickness Avatch thee, and thy languid head 
Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain, 

And charm away the sense of pain: 



LORD J vi i EL rov. 365 

Nor did she crown your mutual flame 
With pledges dear, and with :i father's tender name. 



How in tho world, to mo a desert grown, 
Abandon'd and alone, 

Without my sweet companion can I live? 
Without her lovely smile, 
The dear reward of every virtuous toil, 

What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition give? 

One would wish to think that Lord Lyttelton was 
faithful to the memory of his Lucy : but he was 
neither more nor less than man ; and in the im- 
patience of grief, or unable to live without that 
domestic happiness to which his charming wife had 
accustomed him, he married again, about two years 
after her death, and too precipitately. His second 
choice was Elizabeth Rich, eldest daughter of Sir 
Robert Rich. Perhaps lie expected too much ; and 
how few women could have replaced Lucy For- 
tescue! The experiment proved a most unfor- 
tunate one, and added bitterness to his regrets. 
He derated the rest of his life to politics and lite- 
rature. 

About ten years after his second marriage, Lord 
Lyttelton made a tour into Wales with a gay party. 
On some occasion, while *hey stood contemplating 
A scene of uncommon picturesque beauty, he turned 
to a friend, and asked him, with enthusiasm, whether 

was possible to behold a more pleasing sight ? 
Yes, answered the other — the countenance of the 
woman one loves ! Lord Lyttelton shrunk, as \t 



866 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

probed to the quick ; and after a moment's silence, 
replied pensively — " Once, I thought so ! " * 

Lord Lyttelton brings to mind his friend and 
patron, Frederick, Prince of Wales, (grandfather 
of the present King.) From the impression which 
history has given of his character, no one, I believe, 
would suspect him of being a poet, though he waa 
known as the patron of poets. He sometimes 
amused himself with writing French and English 
songs, &c, in imitation of the Regent Due d' Or- 
leans. But, assuredly, it was not in imitation of 
the Regent he chose his own wife for the principal 
subject of his ditties. In the same manner, and in 
the same worthy spirit of imitation of the same 
worthy person, he tried hard to be a libertine, and 
laid siege to the virtue of sundry maids of honor ; 
perferring all the time, in his inmost soul, his own 
wife to the handsomest among her attendants. His 
flirtations with Lady Archibald Hamilton and Miss 
Vane had not half the grace or sincerity of some 
of his effusions to the Princess, whom he tenderly 
loved, and used to call, with a sort of pastoral gal- 
lantry, " ma Sylvie." One of his songs has been 
preserved by that delicious retailer of court-gossip, 
Horace Walpole ; and I copy it from the Appendix 
to his Memoirs, without agreeing in his flippan 
censure. 

SONG. 

'Tis not the languid brightness of thine eyes, 
That swim with pleasure and delight, 

* Lord Lytteltou's Works, 4to. 



nu. PARNKLL. 367 

flor those fair heavenly arches which ari*« 
O'er each of them, to shade their light: — 

Tis not that bair which plays with every wind, 

And loves to wanton o'er thy 

Now straying o'er thy forehead, now behind 

Retiring with insidious grace: — 

'Tin not the living colors over each, 

By nature's Qnest pencil wrought, 

To shame the fresh-blown rose and blooming peach, 

And mock the happiest painter's thought; 

Bat 'tis that gentle mind, that ardent love 

So kindly answering my d-esire, — 

That grace with which you look, and speak, and move! 

That thus have set my soul on fire. 

To Dr. Parnell's* love for his wife, (Anne 
Minchin,) we owe two of the most charming songs 
in our language ; " My life hath been so wondrous 
free," and that most beautiful lyric, " When your 
beauty appears," which, as it is less known, I give 
entire. 

When your beauty appears 

In its graces and airs, 

All bright as an angel new dropt from the skies, 

At distance I gaze, and am aw'd by my fears, 

So strangely you dazzle my eyes. 

But when without art, 

Your kind thoughts you impart, 

When your love runs in blushes through every vein , 

When it darts from your eyes, when it pants at youi 

Then I know that you'-'* woman again. [heart 

" There's a passion ana pride 
In our sex," she replied; 

• Born in Dublin. 1679; died 1717. 



$68 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

" And thus, might I gratify both, I would do,— • 
Still an angel appear to each lover beside, 
But still be a woman for you ! " 

This amiable and beloved wife died after a union 
of five or six years, and left her husband broken- 
hearted. Her sweetness and loveliness, and the 
general sympathy caused by her death, drew a 
touch of deep feeling from the pen of Swift, who 
mentions the event in his journal to Stella : " every 
one," he says, " grieved for her husband, they were 
so happy together." Poor Parnell did not, in his 
bereavement, try Lord Lyttelton's specifics : he did 
not write an elegy, nor a monody, nor did he marry 
again ; — and, unfortunately for himself, he could 
not subdue his mind to religious resignation. His 
grief and his nervous irritability proved too much 
for his reason ; he felt, what all have felt under the 
influence of piercing anguish, — a dread, a horror 
of being left alone : he flew to society ; when that 
was not at hand, he sought relief from excess which 
his constitution would not bear, and died, unhappy 
man ! in the prime of life ; " a martyr," as Gold 
mith tells us, " to conjugal fidelity." 



KLOPSTOCK AND MKIX 369 

CHAPTER XXX. 

CONJUGAL POETRY, CONTINUED. 

KL0P3T00K AND META. 

Then is there not the German Klopstoek and 
his Meta, — his lovely, devoted, angelic Meta ? As 
the subject of some of her husband's most delight- 
ful and popular poems, both before and after her 
marriage, — when living, she formed his happiness 
on earth ; and when, as he tenderly imagined, she 
watched over his happiness from heaven — how pass 
her lightly over in a work like this? Yet how do 
her justice, but by borrowing her own sweet words ? 
or referring the reader at once to the memoirs 
and fragments of her letters, which never saw the 
light till sixty years after her death ? — for in her 
there was no vain-glory, no effort, no display. A 
feeling so hallowed lingers round the memory of 
this angelic creature, that it is rather a subject to 
blend with our most sacred and most serious 
thoughts, — to muse over in hours when the heart 
communes with itself and is still, than to dress out 
in words, and mingle with the ideas of earthly fame 
and happiness. Other loves might be poetical, but 
the love of Klopstoek and his Meta was in itself 
poetry. They were mutually possessed with the 
idea, that they had been predestined to each other 
24 



370 CONJUGAL POETRY 

from the beginning of time, and that their meeting 
on earth was merely a kind of incidental prelude 
to an eternal and indivisible union in heaven : and 
Bhall we blame their fond faith ? 

It is a gentle and affectionate thought, 
That in immeasurable heights above us, 
Even at our birth, the wreath of love was woven 
With sparkling stars for flowers ! * 

All the sweetest images that ever were grouped 
together by fancy, dreaming over the golden age 
beauty, innocence, and happiness ; the fervor of 
youthful love, the rapture of corresponding affec 
tion ; undoubting faith and undissembled truth ; — 
these were so bound together, so exalted by the 
highest and holiest associations, so confirmed in the 
serenity of conscious virtue, so sanctified by re- 
ligious enthusiasm ; and in the midst of all human 
blessedness, so wrapt up in futurity, — that the 
grave was not the close but the completion and the 
consummation of their happiness. The garland 
which poesy has suspended on the grave of Meta, 
was wreathed by no fabled muse ; it is not of laurel, 
" meed of conqueror and sage ; " nor of roses bloom- 
ing and withering among their thorns ; nor of myrtle 
shrinking and dying away before the blast : but of 
flowers gathered in Paradise, pure and bright, and 
breathing of their native Eden : which never caught 
one blighting stain of earth, and though dewpd with 
-" tears such as angels shed ! " 

* Coleridge's Wallenstein. 



KL0P8T0CI a\i> mkta. 371 

• • • • • 

Tho name of Klopetock fortta an epoch in the 

niston of poetry. Goethe, 8chiller, and Wieland 
have since adorned German literature; hut Klop- 
tfoeb warn the first to impress on tin- poetry of his 

country the stamp of nationality. He was a man 

of great and original genius, — gifted with an ex- 
traordinary degree of sensibility and imagination; 
but those being united to the most enthusiastic re- 
ligious feeling, elevated and never misled him. His 
life was devoted to the three noblest sentiments 
that can fill and animate the human soul,— religion, 
patriotism, and love. To these, from early youth, 
be devoted bis faculties and consecrated his talents. 

Hi' had. even in his boyhood, resolved to write a 
poem, " which should do honor to God, his countrv, 
and himself; ■ and he produced the Messiah. It 
would be difficult to describe the enthusiasm this 
work excited when the first three cantos appeared 
in 1 746. " If poetry had its saints," says Madame 
de Stael, " then Klopstock would be at the head 
of the calendar;" and she adds, with a burst of 
her own eloquence, "Ah, qu'il est beau le talent, 
quand on ne l'a jamais profane* ! quand il n'a servi 
qu'a reveler aux homines, sous la forme attrayante 
lies beaux arts, tea sentiments ge'ne'reux, et les es- 
peranees religieuses obscurcies au fond de leur 



Near 



Such was Kbpstock as a poet. As a man, he ia 
described as one of the most amiable and affection- 
ftte of human beiogs ;— " good in all the foldings 0/ 



872 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

his heart," as his sweet wife expressed it ; free from 
all petty vanity, egotism, and worldly ambition. 
He was pleasing, though not handsome in person. 
with fine blue animated eyes.* The tone of his 
voice was at first low and hesitating, but soft and 
persuasive ; and he always ended by captivating 
the entire attention of those he addressed. He was, 
to his latest moments, fond of the society of women, 
and an object of their peculiar tenderness and ven- 
eration. 

Klopstock's first s°rious attachment was to his 
cousin, the beautiful Fanny Schmidt, the sister of 
his intimate friend and brother poet, Schmidt. He 
loved her constantly for several years. His corre- 
spondence with Bodmer gives us an interesting pic- 
ture of a fine mind struggling with native timidity, 
and of the absolute terror with which this gentle and 
beautiful girl could inspire him, till his heart seemed 
to wither and sicken within him from her supposed 
indifference. The uncertainty of his future pros- 
pects, and his sublime idea of the merits and beau- 
ties of her he loved, kept him silent ; nor did he 
ever venture to declare his passion, except in the 
beautiful odes and songs which she inspired. Speak- 

* Bodmer, after the publication of the Messiah, invited the 
author to his house in Switzerland. He had imaged to himself a 
most sublime idea of the man who could write such a poem, and 
had fancied him like one of the sages and prophets of the Old 
Testament. His astonishment, when he saw a slight made, 
riegant looking young man leap gayly from his carriage, with 
iparkling eyes and smiling countenance, has been pleaaantlj 
inscribed. 



M OPS I 0< K an l) mi. I \. H7!S 

pg of one of those to hi* friend Bodmer, he say*, 
u She who could best reward it, has not seen it ; lS0 
timid docs herapparenl insensibility make me." 

Whether this insensibility was more than appar* 
mi is not perfectly clear: the memoirs of Klop 
Block arc not quite accurate or Batisfactory in tins 
pari of his history. It should seem from tin- pub- 
lished correspondence, that his love was distinctly 
a rowed, though he never had courage to make a 
direct offer of himself Fanny Schmidt appears to 
have been a superior woman in point of* mind, and 
full of admiration for his genius. She writes to 
him in terms of friendship and kindness, but she 
leaves him, after three years' attachment on his 

part, still in doubt whether her heart remain un- 
touched,— and even whether she had a heart to be 
touched. lie intimates, but with a tender and 
guarded delicacy, that he had reason to com- 
plain of her coquetry;* and, with the sensibility 
of a proud but wounded heart, he was anxious to 
prove to himself that his romantic tenderness had 
not been unworthily bestowed. « All the peace and 
consolation of my after life depends on knowing 
whether Fanny really has a heart '?— a heart that 
Could have sympathized with mine '? "f He had 
commissioned his friend Gleim to plead nis cause, 
to sound her heart in its inmost depths; and in 
return, received the intelligence of her app-oach- 
ng union with another. " Wl>en (as he expressef 

• Klopstock's Letters, p. 145. r Klopstock'a Letter*. 



B74 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

it) not a hope was left to be destroyed," he became 
calm ; but he suffered at first acutely ; and this ill- 
fated attachment tinged with a deep gloom nearly 
four years of his life. While in suspense, he con- 
tinually repeats his conviction that he can never 
love again. " Had I never seen her, I might have 
attached myself to another object, and perhaps 
have known the felicity of mutual love ! But now 
it is impossible ; my heart is steeled to every im- 
pression." The sentiment was natural ; but, fortu- 
nately for himself, he was deceived. 

In passing through Hamburg, in April, 1751, 
and while he was still under the influence of this 
heart-wearing attachment to Fanny, he was intro- 
duced to Meta Moller. The impression she made 
on him is thus described, in a letter to his friend 
and confidant, Gleim. 

" You may perhaps have heard Gisecke mention 
Margaret Moller of Hamburg. I was lately in- 
troduced to this girl, and passed in her society most 
of the time I lately spent at Hamburg. I found 
her, in every sense of the word, so lovely, so am- 
iable, so full of attractions, that I could at times 
scarcely forbear to give her the name which is to 
me the dearest in existence. I was often with her 
alone ; and in those moments of unreserved inter- 
aourse, was insensibly led to communicate my mel 
ancholy story. Could you have seen her in those 
moments, my Gleim ! how she looked and listened 
■ — and how often she interrupted me, and how ten 
lerly sh* wept ! and if you knew how much she i» 



KLOPHTOCK AM) Mi: I A 375 

m/ friend ; and yet it was not for Aer thai I bid n 
long suffered. What a heart must Bhe possess to 
be thus touched for a stranger I At this thought I 
am almost tempted to make a comparison ; hut then 
does a mist gather before mine eyes, and ifl probe 
my heart, I feel that I am more unhappy than 
ever." Again he writes from Copenhagen, " I 
have re-read the little Moller's letters ; sweet artless 
creature Bhe is ! She has already written to me 
four times, and writes in a style so exquisitely nat- 
ural ! Were you to see this lovely girl, and read 
her letters, you would scarce conceive it possible 
that she should be mistress of the French, English, 
and Italian languages, and even conversant with 
Greek and Italian literature." But it were wronging 
both, to give the history and result of this attachment 
to Meta in any language but her own. Since the 
publication of Richardson's correspondence, the 
letters addressed to him, in English, by Meta Klop- 
stock, have become generally known ; but this ac- 
count would be incomplete were they wholly omit- 
ted ; and those who have read them before, will not 
be displeased at the opportunity of re-perusing 
them : her sweet lisping English is worth volumes 
of eloquence. 

44 You will know all what concerns me. Love, 
dear Sir, is all what me concerns, and love shall be 
all what I will tell you in this letter. In one happy 
night I read my husband's poem — the Messiah. I 
leas extremely touched with it. The next day I 
isked one oi his frien is who was the author of this 



076 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

poem ? and this was the first time I heard Klop« 
stock's name. I believe I fell immediately in love 
with him ; at the least, my thoughts were ever with 
him filled, especially because his friend told me 
very much of his character. But I had no hopes 
ever to see him, when quite unexpectedly I heard 
that he should pass through Hamburg. I wrote 
immediately to the same friend, for procuring by 
his means that I might see the author of the Mes- 
siah, when in Hamburg. He told him that a cer- 
tain girl in Hamburg wished to see him, and, for 
all recommendation, showed him some letters in 
which I made bold to criticize Klopstock's verses. 
Klopstock came, and came to me. I must confess, 
that, though greatly prepossessed of his qualities, I 
never thought him the amiable youth that I found 
him. This made its effect. After having seen him 
two hours, I was obliged to pass the evening in 
company, which never had been so wearisome to 
me. I could not speak ; I could not play ; I thought 
I saw nothing but Klopstock. I saw him the next 
day, and the following, and we were very seriously 
friends ; on the fourth day he departed. It was a 
strong hour, the hour of his departure. He wrote 
soon after, and from that time our correspondence 
began to be a very diligent one. I sincerely be» 
lieved my love to be friendship. I spoke with my 
friends of nothing but Klopstock, and showed hi? 
Letters. They rallied me, and said I was in love, 
rallied them again, and said they must have 8 
*ery friendshipless heart, if they had no idea of 



fcLOPBTOCI 4KB mi: i"\. 1/1 

friendship to a man as well as a woman* Thai it 
continued eight months, in which done lay friendi 

found as much love ID Klopstoek's letters a-^ in DM. 

I perceived it likewise, but I would not believe it 
At the last, Klopetot \k said plainly that he loved; 
and I startled as for a wrong thing. I answered 
that it was no love, but friendship, as it was what I 
felt for him; we had not seen one another enough 
to love; as it' love must have more time than 
friendship] This was sincerely my meaning; and 
I had this meaning till Klopstock came again to 
Hamburg. This he did a year after we had 
seen one another the first time. We saw, we 
were friends; we loved, and we believed that we 
loved ; and a short time after I could even tell 
Klopstock that 1 loved. But we were obliged to 
part again, and wait two years for our wedding. 
My mother avouUI not let me marry a stranger. I 
could marry without her consentment, as, by the 
death of my father, my fortune depended not on 
her ; but this was an horrible idea for me ; and 
thank Heaven that I have prevailed by prayers ! 
At this time, knowing Klopstock, she loves him as 
her son, and thanks God that she has not persisted. 
We married, and I am the happiest wife in the 
world. In some few months it will be four years 
that I am so happy ; and still I dote upon Klop- 
rftockasif he was my bridegroom. If you knew 
my husband, you would not wonder. If ycu knew 
bis poem, I could describe him very briefly, in say- 
ng he is ia all respects what he is as a poet Tbw 



178 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

I can say with all wifely modesty ; I am all raptures 
when I do it. And as happy as I am in love, so 
happy am I in friendship ; — in my mother, two 
elder sisters, and five other women. How rich I 
am ! Sir, you have willed that I should speak of 
myself, but I fear that I have done it too much. 
Yet you see how it interests me." 

I have somewhere seen or heard it observed, 
that there is nothing in the Romeo and Juliet more 
finely imagined or more true to nature than 
Romeo's previous love for another. It is while 
writhing under the coldness and scorn of his proud 
inaccessible Rosaline, she who had " forsworn to 
love," that he meets the soft glances of Juliet, 
whose eyes " do comfort, and not burn ; " and he 
takes refuge in her bosom, for she 

Doth grace for grace, and love for love allow ; 
The other did not so. 

With such a grateful and gratified feeling must 
Klopstock have gathered to his arms the devoted 
Meta, who came, with healing on her lips, to suck 
forth the venom of a recent wound. He has him- 
self beautifully expressed this in one of the poems 
addressed to her, and which he has entitled the 
Recantation. He describes the anguish he had 
suffered from an unrequited affection, and the day- 
spring of renovated hope and rapture which now 
dawned in his heart ; 

At length, beyond my hope the night retires, 
'Tis past, and all my long lost joys awake, 



ELOP6TO0I and .mi:ia. I7S 

Smiling tney wake, my long forgotten joys, 
0, how I wonder at nay altered fate] Sec. 

and exults in the charms and tenderness of her 
who had wiped away his tears, and whom he had 

fint " taught to love." 

I taught thee first to love, and seeking thee, 
I ^earned what true love was; it raised my heart 
From earth to heaven, and now, through Eden's groves, 
Witli thee it leads me on in endless joy. 

This little poem lias been translated by Elizabeth 
Smith, with one or two of the graceful little songs 
addressed to Meta, under the name of Cidli. This 
is the appellation giveD to Jarius's daughter in the 
"Messiah;" and Meta, who was fond of the char- 
acter, probably chose it for herself. The first 
cantos of this poem had been published long 
before his marriage, and it was continued after his 
union with Meta, and at her side. Nothing can 
be more charming than the picture of domestic 
Affection and happiness contained in the following 
passage of one of her letters to Richardson : — 
apparently, she had improved in English, since the 
last was written. — " It will be a delightful occupa- 
tion for me to make you more acquainted with my 
husband's poem. Nobody can do it better than I, 
being the person who knows the most of that which 
is not published ; being always present at the birtb 
•f the young verses, which begin by fragments 
here and there, of a subject of which his soul is 



880 CONJUGAL POETRY 

just then filled. He has many great fragments of 
the whole work ready. You may think that per- 
sons who love as we do, have no need of two 
chambers ; we are always in the same : I, with my 
little work, — still — still — only regarding sometimes 
my husband's sweet face, which is so venerable at 
that time, with tears of devotion, and all the sub- 
limity of the subject. My husband reading me 
his young verses, and suffering my criticisms." 

And for the task of criticism, Meta was pe- 
culiarly fitted, not less by her fine cultivated mind 
and feminine delicacy of taste, than by her affec- 
tionate enthusiasm for her husband's glory. " How 
much," says Klopstock, writing after her death, 
" how much do I lose in her even in this respect! 
How perfect was her taste, how exquisitely fine 
her feelings ! she observed every thing, even to 
the slightest turn of the thought. I had only to 
look at her, and could see in her face when a 
syllable pleased or displeased her : and when I 
led her to explain the reason of her remarks, no 
demonstration could be more true, more accurate, 
or more appropriate to the subject. But in general 
this gave us very little trouble, for we understood 
each other when we had scarcely begun to explain 
our ideas." 

And that not a stain of the selfish or earthly 
should rest on the bright purity of her mind and 
heart, it must be remarked that we cannot trace in 
ail her letters, whether before or after marriage, 
the slightest feeling of jealousy or doubt, though 



ELOF \ i> M i i \. 381 

the woman lived whom Klopstock had once exalted 
into a divinity, ami though she lov<-d her hatband 
with the most impassioned enthusiasm. She ex- 
presses frankly her admiration of the odes and 

longs addressed to Fanny: and her only sentiment 
teems to be a mixture of grief and astonishment, 
that any woman could be so insensible as not to 
love Klopstock, or so cruel as to give him pain. 

Though in her letters to Richardson she speaks 
with rapture of her hopes of becoming a mother, 
as all that was wanting to complete her happiness,* 
she had long prepared herself for a fatal determina- 
tion to those hopes. Her constant presentiment of 
approaching death, she concealed, in tenderness to 
her husband. When we consider the fond and 
entire confidence which existed between them, 
this must have cost no small effort of fortitude : 
" She was formed," said Klopstock, " to say, like 
Arria, 'My Paetus,' 'tis not painful :" but her hus- 
band pressed her not to allow any secret feeling to 
prey on her mind: and then, with gratitude for 
his " permission to speak," she avowed her ap- 
prehensions, and at the same time her strong and 
animated trust in religion. This whole letter, to 

'"I not being able to travel yet, my husband has been obliged 
to make a voyage to Copenhagen. lie is yet absent; a cloud 
jver my happiness ! He will soon return ; but what does that 
help? he is yet equally absent. We write to each other every 
woet; but what are letters to presence? But I will speak no 
wore of this little cloud, I will only tell my happiness. But I 
<annot tell you how I rejoice ! — A son of my dear Klopstook'# 
t, when shall I have him? n — Memoirs, p 99. 



582 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

which I must refer the reader, (for any attempt J 
should make to copy it entire, would certainly b« 
unintelligible,) is one of the most beautiful pieces 
of tender eloquence that ever fell from a woman's 
pen ; and that is saying much. She is writing to 
her husband during a short absence. " I well 
know," she says, " that all hours are not alike, and 
particularly the last, since death in my situation, 
must be far from an easy death ; but let the last 
hour make no impression on you. You know too 
well how much the body then presses down the 
soul. Let God give what he will, I shall still be 
happy. A longer life with you, or eternal life with 
Him ! But can you as easily part from me as I from 
you ? You are to remain in this world, in a world 
without me ! You know I have always wished to be 
the survivor, because I well know it is the hardest 
to endure ; but perhaps it is the will of God that 
you should be left; and perhaps you have most 
strength." 

This last letter is dated September 10th, 1754. 
Her confinement took place in November follow- 
ing; and after the most cruel and piotracted 
sufferings, it became too certain that both must 
perish, — mother and child. 

Klopstock stood beside her, and endeavored, as 
well as the agony of his feelings would permit, to 
pray with her and to support her. He praised her 
fortitude : — " You have endured like an angel 
God has been with you ! he will be with you 
were I so wretched as not to be a Christian, 



ELOFBTOOK \m> Mr i \ 383 

ihould now become one." Be added with strong 
emotion, M Be my guardian angel, if ( led permit ! " 
Bhe replied tenderly, •• Sou have ever been mine ! " 
He repeated hie reqnesl more fervently: sheen- 
iwered with a look of ondying love, " Who would 
not be bo!" Be hastened from the mom, unable 
to endure more. After he was gone, her sister,* 
who attended her through her Bufferings, said to 
her, "God will help you!" — " Yes, to heaven!" 
replied the saint. After a taint BtTUggle, she added, 
M It is over ! " her head sunk on the pillow, and 
while her eves, until glazed by death, were fixed 
tenderly on her sister, — thus with the faith of a 

Christian, and the COnrage of a martyr, she resigned 
into the hands of her Creator, a life which had been 
so blameless and so Messed, so intimate with love 
and joy, that only such a death could crown it. by 
proving what an angel a woman can be, in doing, 
feeling, and suffering.! 

***** 

It was by many expected that Klopstock would 
have made the loss of his Meta the subject of a 
poem; but he early declared his resolution not to 
do this, nor to add to the collection of odes and 
songs formerly addressed to her. He gives his 

• Elizabeth Schmidt, married to the brother of Fanny Schmidt 

t Meta was buried with her infant in her arms, at Ottenson, 

near Altona. She had expressed a wish to have two passage! 

from the Messiah, descriptive of the resurrection, inscribed on 

b«r e^fflu, but only one was engraved — 

" Seed sown by God to -ipen for the harvest." 

See Memoirs, p 1&7 



884 CONJUGAL POETBY. 

reasons for this silence. " I think ihat before tL« 
public a man should speak of his wife with the 
game modesty as of himself; and this principle 
would destroy the enthusiasm required in poetry. 
The reader too, not without reason, would feel 
himself justified in refusing implicit credit to the 
fond eulogium written on one beloved ; and my 
love for her who made me the happiest among 
men, is too sincere to let me allow my readers to 
call it in question." Yet in a little poem * addressed 
afterwards to his friend Schmidt, and probably not 
intended for publication, he alludes to his loss, in 
a tone of deep feeling, and complains of the rec- 
ollections which distract his sleepless nights. 

Again the form of my lost wife I see, 
She lies before me, and she dies again ; 
Again she smiles on me, again she dies, 
Her eyes now close, and comfort me no more. 

He indulged the fond thought that she hovered, a 
guardian spirit, near him still, — 

0, if thou love me yet, by heavenly laws 
Condemn me not ! I am a man, and mourn, — 
Support me, though unseen ! 

And he foretells that, even in distant ages, — " in 
times perhaps more virtuous than ours," his grief 
would be remembered, and the name of his Meta 

* Translated by Elizabeth Smith, of whom it has been trulj 
•aid, that she resembled Meta, and to whom we are Indebted ft* 
Ver first introduction to English readers. 



ELOP8TOI B and mii \ 385 

revered. And shall it not be so? — it must — it 
will: — .is long as truth, virtue, tenderness dwell 

in woman's brea>t — SO long shall Meta be dear to 
her sex; for she has honored 08 among men on 
earth, and among saints in heaven ! 

And now, how shall I fill up this sketch? Let 
tis pause for B moment, and suppose the fate of 
Meta and Klopstoek reversed, and that she had 
been called, according to her own tender and un- 
selfish wish, to be the survivor. Under such a 
terrible dispensation, her angelic meekness and 
sublime faith would at first have supported her; 
she would have rejoiced in the certainty of her 
hnsband'fl blessedness, and in the yearning of her 
heart she would have tried to fancy him ever 
present with her in spirit ; she would have collected 
together his works, and have occupied herself in 
transmitting his glory as a poet, without a blemish, 
to the admiration of posterity ; she would have 
gone about all her feminine duties with a quiet 
patience — for it would have been his will ; and 
would have smiled — and her smile would have 
been like the moonlight on a winter lake : and 
with all her thoughts loosened from the earth, to her 
there would never more have been good or evil, 
or grief, or fear, or joy : space and time would 
only have existed to her, as they separated her 
from him. Thus she would ha\>». lived on dyingly 
from day to day, and then have perished, less 
through regret, than through the intense longing 
to realize the vision of her heart, and rejoin him 
26 



886 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

without whom all concerns of life were vain, and 
less than nothing. And this, I am well convinced, 
— as far as one human being may dare to reason 
on the probable result of certain feelings and im 
pulses in another, — would have been the lot of Meta 
if left on the earth alone and desolate. 

If Klopstock acted differently, let him not be 
too severely arraigned ; he was but a man, and 
differently constituted. With great sensibility, he 
possessed, by nature, an elasticity of spirit which 
could rebound, as it were, from the very depths of 
grief: his sorrow, intense at first, found many out- 
ward resources : — he could speak, he could write ^ 
his vivacity of imagination pictured to him Meta 
happy; and his habitual religious feeling made 
him acquiesce in his own privation ; he could please 
himself with visiting her grave, and every year he 
planted it with white lilies, " because the lily was 
the most exalted among flowers, and she was the 
most exalted among women."* He had many 
friends, to whom the confiding simplicity of his 
character had endeared him : all his life he seems 
to have clung to friendship as a child clings to the 
breast of the mother ; he was accustomed to seek 
and find relief in sympathy,— and sympathy, 
deeply felt and strongly expressed, was all around 
him. With his high intellect and profound feeling, 
there was ever a childlike buoyancy in the mind 
of Klopstock, which gained him the title of der 
wrigen jungling — " The ever young, or the youtjp 
* Memoirs. 



ELOP8TO0B AMD W i \. 38'/ 

l>« **/."• His mine! never fell into " tlio sear and 

f«Uow leaf, ' il was a perpetual spring: n„. Qowen 
pew and withered, and blossomed again,— a Dover- 
failing succession of fragrance and beauty: when 

the rose wounded him, he gathered the lily; when 
the lily (lied on his bosom, he cherished the myrtle 
And he was most happy in such a character, fcr in 
him it was allied to (he highest virtue and geniuaj 

and equally remote from weakness and selfishness. 
About tour years after the death of Meta, he 
became extremely attached to a young girl f 
Blackenbuxg, whose name was Dona ; B he loved 
and admired him in return, but naturally felt some 
distrust in the warmth of his attachment; and he 
addressed to her a little poem, in which, tenderly 
alluding to Meta, he assures Dona that she is not 
less dear to him or less necessary to his happi- 
ness f — 

And such is man's fidelity! 

This intended marriage never took place. 

Twenty-five years afterwards, when Klopstock 
was in his sixtieth year, he married Johanna von 
Wentham, a near relation of his Meta; an excel- 
lent and amiable woman, whose affectionate atten- 
tion cheered tli6 remaining years of his iife. 

* Klopstock says of himself, " it is not my nature to be happy 
w miserable by halves; having once discarded melancholy, I am 
tmdy to welcome happiness."— Klopstock ana his Friends, p 164 
t Du zweifolst dass ich dich wie Meta liebe? 
W'ie Meta lieb' Ich Done diet . 
Dies, saget dir mein hertz liebe vo' 
Mein games herti ! &,< 



588 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

Klop stock died at Hamburg in 1813, at the ag« 
of eighty : his remains were attended to the grave 
by all the magistrates, the diplomatic corps, the 
clergy, foreign generals, and a concourse of about 
fifty thousand persons. His sacred poems were 
placed on his coffin, and in the intervals of the 
chanting, the ministering clergyman took up the 
book, and read aloud the fine passage in the Mes- 
siah, describing the death of the righteous. — Happy 
are they, who have so consecrated their genius to 
the honor of Him who bestowed it, that the produc 
tions of their early youth may be placed without 
profanation on their tomb ! 

He was buried under a lime-tree in the church- 
yard of Ottensen, by the side of his Meta and her 
infant, — 

Seed sown by God, to ripen for the harvest. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

CONJUGAL POETRY, CONTINUED. 



BONNIE JEAN. 



It was as Burns's wife as well as his early love, 
that Bonnie Jean lives immortalized in her poet* 
songs, and that her name is destined to float ic 
music from pole to pole. When they first me$ 



BONNIE n: \\ 389 

Burn.- was about six-and-twentj, and Jean Aimour 
* but a young thing," 

WV tempting lips and roguish een, 

the pride, the beauty, and the favorite toast of the 
tillage of MauchHne, where ber father lived To 

an early period of their attachment, or to the fend 
recollection of it in after times, we owe some of 
Hurns'smost beautiful and impassioned songs, — as 

Como, let mo tako thee to this breast, 
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder! 

And I'll spurn as vilest dust, 
Tho world's wealth and grandeur, &c.; 

u O poortith eold and restless love;" "The kind 
love that's in her e'e ; " "Lewis, what reck I by 
thee;" and many others. I conjecture, from a 
passage in one of Burns's letters, that Bonnie Jean 
also furnished the heroine and the subject of that 
admirable song, " whistle, and I'll come to thee, 
my lad," so full of buoyant spirits and artless affec- 
tion ; it appears that she wished to have her name 
introduced into it, and that he afterwards altered 
the fourth line of the first verse to please her : — 
thus, 

Thy Jeanie will venture w>* ye, my lad; 

but this amendment has been rejected by singers 
*nd editors, as injuring the musical accentuation 
the anecdote, however, and *he introduction of 
die name, give an additional interest and a truth 
to the sentiment, for which I could be content to 



$90 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

lacrifice the beauty of a single line, and inethinki 
Jeanie had a right to dictate in this instance.* 
With regard to her personal attractions, Jean was 
at this time a blooming girl, animated with health, 
affection, and gayety ; the perfect symmetry of her 
slender figure; her light step in the dance; the 
" waist sae jimp," " the foot sae sma'," were no 
fancied beauties ; she had a delightful voice, and 
sung with much taste and enthusiasm the ballads 
of her native country ; among which we may 
imagine that the songs of her lover were not for- 
gotten. The consequences, however, of all this 
dancing, singing, and loving were not quite so 
poetical as they were embarrassing. 

wha could prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him? 
wha could prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am ? 

Burns had long been distinguished in his rustic 
neighborhood for his talents, for his social qualities 
and his conquests among the maidens of his own 
rank. His personal appearance is thus described 
from memory by Sir Walter Scott : " His form 
was strong and robust, his manner rustic, not 
clownish ; with a sort of dignified simplicity, which 
received part of its effect, perhaps, from one's 
knowledge of his extraordinary talents ; * * * his 

* "A dame whom the graces haye attired in witcheraft, and 
whom the loves have armed with lightning — a fair one — herself 
ths heroine of the song, insists on the amendment— and disput* 
ker commands if you dare !" — Burns^s Letters. 



■'•own n \ v. 391 

»vr alone, I think, indicated the poetical character 
ind temperament ; it was large, and of a dark cast, 
which glowed, (I say literally, glowed,) when he 
ipoke with feeling and interest;" — M his addreai to 

females was extremely deferential, and always 
with a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, 
which engaged their attention particularly. I have 
heard the late Duchess of Gordon remark this: '* 
and Allan Cunningham, speaking also from recol- 
lection, says, " he had a very manly countenance, 
and a very dark complexion ; his habitual expres- 
sion was intensely melancholy, but at the presence 
of those he loved or esteemed, his whole face 
beamed with affection and genius ;"f — M his voice 
was very musical ; and he excelled in dancing, 
and all athletic sports which required strength 
and ability." 

Is it surprising that powers of fascination, which 
carried a Duchess " off her feet," should conquer 
the heart of a country lass of low degree ? Bonnie 
Jean was too soft-hearted, or her lover too irresist- 
ible ; and though Burns stepped forward to repair 
their transgression by a written acknowledgment 
of marriage, which, in Scotland, is sufficient to con- 
stitute a legal union, still his circumstances, and 
his character as a " wild lad," were such, that 
nothing could appease her father's indignation 
and poor Jean, when humbled and weakened by 
the consequences of her fault and her sense of 

* Lockhart'8 Life of Burns p. If 3. 
t Life of Burns, p. 268 



J9'i CONJUGAL POETRY. 

ghame, was prevailed on to destroy the document 
of her lover's fidelity to his vows, and to reject 
him. 

Burns was nearly heart-broken by this derelic- 
tion, and between grief and rage was driven to the 
verge of insanity. His first thought was to fly the 
-ountry ; the only alternative which presented 
itself, " was America or a jail ; " and such were 
the circumstances under which he wrote his " La- 
ment," which, though not composed in his native 
dialect, is poured forth with all that energy and 
pathos which only truth could impart. 

No idly feigned poetic pains, 

My sad, love-lorn lamenting claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains, 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith — the mutual flame — 

The oft-attested powers above — 
The promised father's tender name — 

These were the pledges of my love ! &c. 

This was about 1786 : two years afterwards, when 
the publication of his poems had given him name 
and fame, Burns revisited the scenes which his 
Jeanie had endeared to him : thus he sings exult- 

ingly,— 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town 
And by yon garden -green, again: 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 
And see my Bonnie Jean again ! 

They met in secret ; a reconciliation took place 
ind the consequences were, that Bonnie Jean 



BONNIB II \ n 893 

being again ucposed to the indignation of her 
famil), was literally tamed oat of ber father*! 
house. When the news reached Barns he was 
lying ill j he was lame from the consequences of 
u m accident, — the moment he conld stir, be flew to 
ber, went through the ceremony of marriage with 
her in presence of competent witnesses, and a few 

months afterwards lie brought her to his new firm 

at Elliesland, established her under his roof as his 

wife, and the honored mother of his children. 

It was daring this second-hand honeymoon, hap- 
pier and more endeared than many have proved 
in their first gloss, that Burns wrote several of the 
sweetest effusions ever inspired by his .Jean ; even 
in the days of their early wooing, and when their 
intercourse had all the difficulty, all the romance, 
all the mystery, a poetical lover could desire. 
Thus practically controverting his own opinion, 
" that conjugal love does not make such a figure 
in poesy as that other love," &c. — for instance, we 
have that most beautiful song, composed when he 
left his Jean at Ayr, (in the west of Scotland,) and 
had gone to prepare for her at Elliesland, near 
Dumfries.* 

Of a' the airts the win' can blaw, I dearly love the west, 

For there the bonnie hissie lives, the hiss that I love best ! 

There wild woods grow ana rivers row, and meny B hill 

between; 

But day and night, my fancy s flight is ever wi' ml 

Jean! 

•life of Burns, p. 247 



894 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair— 
I hear her in the tuneful birds, wi' music charm the air. 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs by fountain, 

shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, but minds me o' 

my Jean. 

blaw ye westlin winds, blaw soft among the leafy trees * 

Wi' gentle gale, fra' muir and dale, bring ham© the 

laden bees ! 

And bring the lassie back to me, that's aye sae sweet 

and clean, 

Ae blink o' her wad banish care, sae lovely is my Jean! 

What sighs and vows, amang the knowes, hae past 
between us twa ! 
How fain to meet! how wae to part! — that day she 
gaed awa ! 
The powers above can only ken, to whom the heart is 
seen, 
That none can be sae dear to me, as my sweet lovely 
Jean ! 

Nothing can be more lovely than the luxuriant, 
though rural imagery, the tone of placid but deep 
tenderness, which pervades this sweet song : and 
to feel all its harmony, it is not necessary to sing 
it — it is music in itself. 

In November, 1788, Mrs. Burns took up her resi- 
dence at Elliesland, and entered on her duties as 
A wife and mistress of a family, and her husband 
welcomed her to her home (" her ain roof-tree,") 
with the lively, energetic, but rather unquotable 
song, " I hae a wife o' ray ain ; " and subsequent]* 



BONNIE .ika.v 895 

he wrote for her, M were I on Parnaanu Hill/ 
»nd that delightful little bit of Simple feeling — 

She is a winsome wee thing, 

Bhe la a handsome woo thing, 

She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife of mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I nevor lo'ed a dearer, — 

And next my heart I'll wear her, 
For fear my jewel tine ! 

and one of the finest of all his ballads, " Their 
groves o* green myrtle,** which not only presents 
i most exquisite rural pieture to the fancy, but 
breathes the very soul of chastened and conjugal 
tenderness. 

I remember, as a particular instance — I suppose 
there are thousands — of the tenacity with which 
Burns seizes on the memory, and twines round the 
very fibres of one's heart, that when I was travelling 
in Italy, along that beautiful declivity above the river 
Clituninus, languidly enjoying the balmy air, and 
gazing with no careless eye on those scenes of rich 
and classical beauty, over which memory and fancy 
had shed 

A light, a glory a fair luminous cloud 
Enveloping the earth ; 

even then, by some strange association, a feeling 
of my childish years came over me, aod all the 

"ivelong day I was singing, sotto voce — 



596 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon* 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume » 

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green bracken, 
Wi' the burn stealing under the long yellow broom! 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 
Where the bluebell and gowan lurk lowly -unseen, 

For there, lightly tripping among the wild flowers, 
A' listening the linnet, oft wanders my Jean. 

Thus the heath, and the bluebell, and the gow* 
an, had superseded the orange and the myrtle on 
those Elysian plains, 

Where the crush' d weed sends forth a rich perfume. 

And Burns and Bonnie Jean were in my heart and 
on my lips, on the spot where Virgil had sung, 
and Fabius and Hannibal met. 

Besides celebrating her in verse, Burns has left 
us a description of his Bonnie Jean in prose. He 
writes (some months after his marriage) to hia 
friend Miss Chalmers, — " If I have not got polite 
tattle, modish manners, and fashionable dress, I am 
not sickened and disgusted with the multiform 
curse of boarding-school affectation ; and I have 
got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the 
soundest constitution, and the kindest heart in the 
country. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her 
creed, that I am le plus bet esprit, et le plus Jionnete 
homme in the universe ; although she scarcely ever 
in her life, (except reading the Scriptures and the 
Psalms of David in metre,) spent five minutes to» 



BOufffflB ii \\ 397 

tether on either prose or verse. I must except 
a!>o a certain late publication of Scots Poems, 
which she has perused \cr_v devoutly, and all the 
ballads in the country, as she. has (O, the partial 
lover 1 you will say) tin' finest woodnote-wild I ever 

heard. " 

After this, what becomes of the man nation that 
Burns made an unhappy marriage, — that he was 
K compelled to invest her with the control of his 

lite, win mi he seems at first to have selected only 
for the gratification of a temporary inclination;" 
and, " that to this circumstance nmeh of his mis* 
conduct is to he attributed?" Yet this, I be- 
lieve, is B prevalent impression. Those whose 
hearts have glowed, and whose eyes have filled 
with delicious tears over the songs of Burns, have 
reason to be grateful to Mr. Lockhart, and to a kin- 
dred spirit, Allan Cunningham, for the generous 
feeling with which they have vindicated Burns and 
his Jean. Such aspersions are not only injurious 
to the dead and cruel to the living, but they do in- 
calculable mischief: — they are food for the flip- 
pant scoiler at all that makes the " poetry of life." 
They unsettle in gentler bosoms all faith in love, in 
truth, in gooduess — (alas, such disbelief comes soon 
enough !) they chill and revolt the heart, and 
M take the rose from the fair forehead of an inno- 
cent love to set a blister there." 

" That Burns," says Lockhart, " ever sank into a 
toper, that his social propensities ever interfered 
with the discharge of the duties of his office, or 



598 cm 'ugal poetry. 

that, in spite of some transitory follies, he ever 
ceased to be a most affectionate husband — all these 
charges have been insinuated, and they are all 
false. His aberrations of all kinds were occasional, 
not systematic ; they were the aberrations of a man 
whose moral sense was never deadened — of one 
who encountered more temptations from without 
and from within, than the immense majority of 
mankind, far from having to contend against, arc 
even able to imagine," and who died in his thirty- 
sixth year, " ere he had reached that term of life 
up to which the passions of many have proved too 
strong for the control of reason, though their mortal 
career being regarded as a whole, they are honored 
as among the most virtuous of mankind." 

We are told also of " the conjugal and maternal 
tenderness, the prudence and the unwearied for- 
bearance of his Jean," — and that she had much 
need of forbearance is not denied ; but he ever 
found in her affectionate arms, pardon and peace, 
and a sweetness that only made the sense of his 
occasional delinquencies sting the deeper. 

She still survives to hear her name, her early 
love, and her youthful charms, warbled in the songg 
of her native land. He, on whom she bestowed 
her beauty and her maiden truth, dying, has left to 
her the mantle of his fame. What though she be 
cow a grandmother ? to the fancy, she can never 
grow old, or die. We can never bring her before 
our thoughts but as the lovely, graceful country 
girl, " lightly tripping among the wild flowers/' and 



HOW IK II \\ 399 

irarbling, M Of a' tbe airs the win' ran Maw," — and 
this, () women, is what genius C80 do for yon ! 

Wherever the adventurous spirit of her country- 
men transport them, from the spicy groves of India 

to the wild hanks of the Mississippi, the name of 

Bonnie .lean is heard, bringing back to the wan- 
derer sweet visions of home, and of days of" Auld 
lang Syne." The peasant-girl sings it -'at the ewe 
milking," and the high-born fair breathes it to her 

harp and her piano. As long as love and song 
nhall survive, even those who have learned to a{>- 
preciate the splendid dramatic music of Germany 
and Italy, who can thrill with rapture when Pasta, 

Queen and enchantress of the world of sound, 
ruins forth her soul in song; 

or when Sontag 

Carves out her dainty voice as readily 
Into a thousand sweet distinguished tones, 

even then shall still have a soul for the " Banks and 
braes of Bonnie Doon," still keep a corner of their 
hearts for truth and nature — and Burns's Bonnie 
Jean. 

***** 

While my thoughts are yet with Burns, — his 
name before me, — my heart and my memory still 
Under that spell of power which his genius flings 
around him, I will add a few words on the subject 
«f his supernumerary loves ; for he has celeb-ated 



400 HIGHLAND MARY. 

few imaginary heroines. Of these rustic divinities, 
one of the earliest, and by far the most interesting, 
was Mary Campbell, (his " Highland Mary,") the 
object of the deepest passion Burns ever felt ; the 
subject of some of his loveliest songs, and of the 
elegy " To Mary in Heaven." 

Whatever this young girl may have been in per- 
son or condition, she must have possessed some 
striking qualities and charms to have inspired a 
passion so ardent, and regrets so lasting, in a man 
of Burns's character. She was not his first love, 
nor his second, nor his third ; for from the age of 
sixteen there seems to have been no interregnum in 
his fancy. His heart, he says, was " completely 
tender, and eternally lighted up by some goddess 
or other." His acquaintance with Mary Camp- 
bell began when he was about two or three-and- 
twenty : he was then residing at Mossgiel, with his 
brother, and she was a servant on a neighbouring 
farm. Their affection was reciprocal, and they 
were solemnly plighted to each other. " We met," 
Bays Burns, " by appointment, on the second Sun- 
day in May, in a sequestered spot by the banks of 
the Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a fare- 
well, before she should embark for the West High- 
lands, to arrange matters among her friends for our 
projected change of life." " This adieu," says Mr. 
Cromek, " was performed with all those simple and 
Btriking ceremonials which rustic sentiment has de- 
vised to prolong tender emotions and to impose 
awe. The lovers stood on each side of a smal 



IlKilll AVI) MAKV. 401 

purling brook ; they laved their hands in the stream, 
and holding a Bible between them, pronounced 
their vows to be faithful to each other." This very 

Bible has recently been discovered in the posses- 
sion of Man- Campbell's Bister. On the boards of 
the Old Testament is inscribed, in Burns's hand- 
writing, " And ye shall not swear by my name 
falsely, I am the Lord."— Levit. chap. xix. v. 12. 
On the boards of the New Testament, 1 ' Thou sfaalt 
no* forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the 
Loid thine oaths." — St. Matth. chap. v. v. 33, and 
his own name in both. Soon afterwards, disasters 
came upon him, and he thought of going to try his 
fortune in Jamaica. Then it was, that lie wrote the 
simple, wild, b it powerful lyric, " Will ye go to the 
Indie.-, my Mary ? " 

H r yi jm go to the Indies, my Mary, 

And leave old Scotia's shore ? 
Will ye go the Indies, my Mary, 

Across the Atlantic's roar? 

sweet grows the lime and the orange, 
And the apple on the pine ; 

But all the charms o' the Indies 
Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the heavens to be true; 

And sae may the heavens forget me 
"When I forget my vow ! 

O plight me your faith, my Mary ! 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 



402 HIGHLAND MARY. 

plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand 

We hae plighted our faith, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join; 
And curst be the cause that shall part ua — 

The hour, and the moment of time ! 

As I have seen among the Alps the living stream 
rise, swelling and bubbling, from some cleft in the 
mountain's breast, then, with a broken and troubled 
impetuosity, rushing amain over all impediments, — 
then leaping, at a bound, into the abyss below ; so 
this song seems poured forth out of the full heart, 
as if a gush of passion had broken forth, that could 
not be restrained; and so the feeling seems to 
swell and hurry through the lines, till it ends in 
one wild burst of energy and pathos — 

And curst be the cause that shall part us — 
The hour, and the moment of time ! 

A few months after this " day of parting love," 
on the banks of the Ayr, Mary Campbell set off 
from Inverary to meet her lover, as I suppose, to 
take leave of him ; for it should seem that no 
thoughts of a union could then be indulged. 
Having reached Greenock, she was seized with a 
malignant fever, which hurried her to the grave 
in a few days ; so that the tidings of her death 
reached her lover, before he could even hear of 
her illness. How deep and terrible was the shock 
*0 his strong and ardent mind, — how lasting the 



iii<;iii.\n.-> mauv. 403 

memory Qf this rnrly love, is well known. Yean 

ifter bev death, he wrote the aoag of « Highland 

Mary."* 

pule, pale now those rosy lips 
I oft h.io kiss'd so fondly I 

Ami closM Ibr aye the sparkling glano* 
That dwelt on me sae kindly! 

And mouldering now in silent dust, 

The heart that, lo'ed me dearly; 
Rut aye within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 

The elegy " To Mary in Heaven," was written 
about a year after his marriage, on the anniversary 
of the day on which he heard of the death of 
Mary Campbell. The account of the feeling and 
the cireumslanees under which it was composed, 
was taken from the recital of Bonnie Jean herself, 
and cannot be read without a thrill of emotion. 
M According to her, Burns had spent that day, 
though laboring under a cold, in the usual work of 
his harvest, and apparently in excellent spirits. 
But as the twilight deepened, he appeared to grow 
very sad about something,' and at length wan- 
dered out into the barn-yard, to which his wife, in 

• Beginning,— 

u Ye banks and braes and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomerie." 

As the works of Burns are probaoly in the hands of all wh« 

•rill read this little boo*, those who have not his finest passage. 

oy heart, ean easily refer to them. I feJt it therefore superfluous 

to give at length the song alluded to. 



404 HIGHLAND MARY 

her anxiety for his health, followed him, entreating 
him, in vain, to observe that frost had set in. and 
to return to his fireside. On being again and 
again requested to do so, he always promised com- 
pliance, but still remained where he was. striding 
up and down slowly, and contemplating the sky, 
which was singularly clear and starry. At last, 
Mrs. Burns found him stretched on a heap of straw, 
with his eyes fixed on a beautiful planet, ' that 
shone like another moon,' and prevailed on him to 
come in." * He complied ; and immediately on 
entering the house, wrote down, as they now stand, 
the stanzas " To Mary in Heaven." 

Mary Campbell was a poor peasant-girl, whose 
life had been spent in servile offices, who could 
just spell a verse in her Bible, and could not 
write at all, — who walked barefoot to that meeting 
on the banks of the Ayr, which her lover has re- 
corded. But Mary Campbell will five to memory 
while the music and the language of her country 
endure. Helen of Greece and the Carthage 
Queen are not more surely immortalized than this 
plebeian girl. — The scene of parting love, on the 
banks of the Ayr, that spot where " the golden 
hours, on angel-wings," hovered over Burns and 
his Mary, is classic ground ; Vaucluse and Pens- 
hurst are not more lastingly consecrated: and 
like the copy of Virgil, in which Petrarch noted 
down the death of Laura, which many have made 
ft pilgrimage but to look on, even such a relic shal' 

* Lockhart's Life of Burns. 



LOVRfl "i BURNS. 403 

oe tin- Billle Of Highland Mary. Some far-famed 
MuIeCtion shall be proud to DOSSeflBlt; and many 

Bereaftei shall gaze, with glistening eyes, on the 
handwriting of Aim, — who by the mere power of 
truth and passion, shall live in all hearts to the end 
of time. 



Some other loves commemorated by Burns are 
not very interesting or reputable. li The lassie wi* 
the lint white locks," the heroine of many beautiful 
songs, was an erring sister, who, as she was the 
Object of a poet's admiration, shall be suffered to 
fade into a shadow. The subjeet of the song, 

Had we never lov'd sae kindly — 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly — 
Never mot — or never parted — 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted, 

was also real, and I am afraid, a person of the 
same description. Of these four lines, Sir Walter 
Scott has said, " that they were worth a thousand 
romances ; " and not only so, but they are in them- 
selves a complete romance. They are the alpha 
and omega of feeling ; and contain the essence of 
an existence of pain and pleasure, distilled into 
one burning drop. Of almost all his songs the 
heroines are real, though we must not suppose he 
was in love with aii of fhein, — that were too un- 
conscionable ; bat he sought inspiration, and found 
.t, where he could not have hoped an v farther 
boon. In one of his letters to Mr. Thompson, fo» 



406 L0 7ES OF BURNS. 

whose collection of Scottish airs he was then 
adapting words, he says, " Whenever I want to be 
more than ordinary in song, to be in some degree 
equal to your divine airs, do you imagine I fast 
and pray for the celestial emanation ? — tout au 
contraire. I have a glorious recipe, the very one 
that, for his own use, was invented by the divinity 
of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the 
flocks of Admetus, — I put myself on a regimen of 
admiring a fine woman." 

Thus the original blue eyes which inspired that 
sweet song, " Her een sae bonnie blue," belonged 
to a Miss Jeffreys, now married and living at New 
York. We owe " She's fair and she's false," to 
the fickleness of a Miss Jane Stuart, who, it is 
said, jilted the poet's friend, Alexander Cunning- 
ham. — " The bonnie wee thing," was a very little, 
very lovely creature, a Miss Davies ; and the song, 
it has been well said, is as brief and as beautiful as 
the lady herself. The heroine of " O saw ye 
bonnie Leslie," is now Mrs. Cumming of Logie : 
Mrs. Dugald Stewart, herself a delightful poetess, 
inspired the pastoral song of Afton Water ; and 
every woman has an interest in " Green grow the 
Rashes." All the compliments that were ever paid 
us by the other sex, in prose and verse, may be 
lummed up in Burns's line, 

IVhat signifies the life e' man, 'an 'twere na or the lassiej 
0? 

It were, however, an endless task to give a list 



T.O-.TS OF BUKT0. 407 

r»( his heroines; and thoM who arc curious about 
tiu' personal history of tic poet, of which his songi 
nre "part and panel." mvuA be re fe rred to higher 
mid note general sources of information * 

Bnrni used to say, after he had been introduced 
into society above his own rank in life, that he 
paw nothing in the gentlemen much superior to 
what Km had been accustomed to; but that a re- 
fined and elegant woman was a being of whom he 
could have formed no previous idea. This, I think, 
will explain, if it does not excuse, the characteristic 
freedom of some of his songs. His love is ardent 
and sincere, and it is expressed with great poetic 
power, and often with the most exquisite pathos 
but still it is the love of a peasant for a peasant, 
and he woos his rustic beauties in a style of the 
most entire equality and familiarity. It is not the 
homage of one who waited, a suppliant, on the 
throne of triumphant beauty. " He drew no magic 
circle of lofty and romantic thought around those 
he loved, which could not be passed without lower- 
ing them from stations little lower than the angels."! 
Still, his faults against taste and propriety are far 
fewer and lighter than might have been expected 
from his habits ; and as he acknowdedged that he 
could have formed no idea of a woman refined by 
high breeding and education, we cannot be sur* 
orised if he sometimes committed solecisms of 

* To the " Reliques of Burns, by Jromes;" to the Edition ol 
rue Scottish Songs, with notes, bj Allan Cunningham ; and U 
liOokhart's Life of Burns. t Aiiao Cunningham 



408 CONJUGAL POETRY. 

which he was scarcely aware. For instance, he m8t 
a young lady, (Miss Alexander, of Ballochmyle,) 
walking in her father's grounds, and struck by her 
charms and elegance, he wrote in her honor his 
well known song, " The lovely lass of Ballochmyle," 
and sent it to her. He was astonished and offended 
that no notice was taken of it ; but really, a young 
lady, educated in a due regard for the convenances 
and the biense'ances of society, may be excused, if 
she was more embarrassed than flattered by the 
homage of a poet, who talked, at the first glance, 
of " clasping her to his bosom." It was rather pre- 
cipitating things. 



CHAPTER XXXH. 

CONJUGAL POETRY, CONTINUED. 

MONTI AND HIS WIFE. 

Monti, who is lately dead, will at length be al- 
lowed to take the place which belongs to him among 
the great names of his country. A poet is ill cal- 
culated to play the part of a politician ; and the 
praise and blame which have been so profusely and 
indiscriminately heaped on Monti while living, must 
be removed by time and dispassionate criticism, be- 
fore justice can be done to him, either as a man o/ 



MONTI AND ttlfl Wll )•. 409 

a poot The mingled grace and energy of his style 
obtained aim the oame offl Dante grazioso, and ho 
has lefl behind him something striking in every 
possible form of composition,— lyric, dramatic, epic, 
ami satirical. 

Amid all the changes of his various life, and all 
the trying vicissitudes of Bnirits-^the wear and 
tear of mind which attend a poet by profession, 
tasked to almost constant exertion, Monti possi 
two enviable treasures;— a lovely and devoted wile, 
with a soul which could appreciate his powers and 
talents, and exult in his fame; and a daughter 
equally amiable, and yet more beautiful and highly 
gifted. He has immortalized both; and has left us 
delightful proofs of the charm and the glory which 
poetry can throw round the purest and most hal- 
lowed relations of domestic life. 

When Monti was a young man at Rome, caressed 
by popes and nephews of popes, and with the 
most brilliant ecclesiastical preferment opening be- 
fore him. all his views in life were at once bouleverse 
by a passion, which does sometimes in real life play 
the part assigned to it in romance— trampling on 
interest and ambition, and mocking at cardinals' 
hats and tiaras. Monti fell into love and fell out 
of the good graces of his patrons : he threw off 
the habit of an abbate* married his Teresa, in spite 
of the world and fortune; and instead of an aspir- 
ing priest, became a great poet. 

Teresa Pichler was the daughter of Pichler 

• Worn by the young men who are intended for the Chnroh 



HO CONJUGAL POETRY. 

the ielebrated gem engraver. I have heard he* 
described, by those who knew her in her younger 
years, as one of the most beautiful creatures in the 
world. Brought up in the studio of her father, in 
whom the spirit of ancient art seemed to have re- 
vived for modern times, Teresa's mind as well aa 
person had caught a certain impress of antique 
grace, from the constant presence of beautiful and 
majestic forms : but her favorite study was music, 
in which she was a proficient ; her voice and her 
harp made as many conquests as her faultless figure 
and her bright eyes. After her marriage she did 
not neglect her favorite art ; and she, whose talent 
had charmed Zingarelli and Guglielmi, was ac- 
customed', in their hours of domestic privacy, to 
soothe, to enchant, to inspire, her husband. Monti, 
in one of his poems, has tenderly commemorated 
her musical powers. He calls on his wife during a 
period of persecution, poverty, and despondency, 
to touch her harp, and as she was wont, rouse his 
sinking spirit, and unlock the source of nobler 
thoughts. 

Stendi, dolce amor mio ! sposa diletta ' 
A quell' arpa la man ; che la soave, 

Dolce fatica di tue dite aspetta. 
Svegliami l'armonia, ch' entro le cave 

Latebre alberga del sonoro legno, 
E de' forti pensier volgi la chiave ! 

There is a resemblance in the sentiment of these 
verses, to some stanzas addressed by a living Eng 
Wsb poet to his wife ; — she who, like Monti's Teresa 



Monti .\\i> m.s win-. 411 

can strike her harp, till, U a spirit Caught in some 

•pell of Ms own teaching, mask itself seems to 
latter, imprisoned among the chorda, — to come at 
hex will and breathe bee thoaght, rather than obey 
ber touch ! — 

Once more, among these rich and golden strings 
Wander with thy white arm, dour Lady pale! 

And when at last from thy Bweet discard springs 
The aerial mnsio,— like the dreams that veil 

Earth's shadows with diviner thoughts and things, 

<» let the passion and the time prevail! — 
bid thy spirit through the mazes run ! 
For music Is like love, and must he won! &c* 

The Italian verses have great power and beauty; 
but the English lines have the superiority, not in 
poetry only, but in rhythmical melody. They fall 
on the ear like a strain from the harp which in- 
spired them— full, and rich, and thrilling sweet,— 
and not to be forgotten ! 

To return to .Monti ;— no man had more complete- 
ly that temperament which is supposed to accom- 
pany genius. He was fond, and devoted in his 
domestic relations ; but he was variable in spirits, 
ardent, restless, and subject to fits of gloom. And 
how often must the literary disputes and political 
tracasserics in which he was engaged, have embit- 
tered and irritated so susceptible a mind and tem- 
per ! If his wife were at his side to soothe him with 
Wer music, and her smiles, and her tenderness,— it 
was well,— the cloud passed away. If she were 

• Barry CornwaU 



412 CONJUGAL POETLT. 

absent, every suffering seemed aggravated, and we 
find him — like one spoiled and pampered, with at 
tention and love, — yielding to an irritable despond- 
ency, which even the presence of his children could 
not alleviate. 

Che phi ti resta a far per mio dispetto, 
Sorte crudel ? mia donna e hingi, e io privo, 
De' suoi conforti in miserando aspetto 
Egro qni giacclo, al' sofierir sol vivo ! * 

But the most remarkable of all Monti's conjugal 
effusions, is a canzone written a short time before 
his death, and when he was more than seventy 
years of age. Nothing can be more affecting than 
the subdued tone of melancholy tenderness, with 
which the gray-haired poet apostrophizes her who 
had been the love, the pride, the joy of his life for 
forty years. In power and in poetry, this canzone 
will bear a comparison with many of the more rap- 
turous effusions of his youth. The occasion on 
which it was composed is thus related in a note 
prefixed to it by the editor.f When Monti was 
recovering from a long and dangerous illness, 
through which he had been tenderly nursed by hii 
wife and daughter, he accompanied them " in vil- 
leggiatura," to a villa near Brianza, the residence 
of a friend, where they were accustomed to cele- 
brate the birthday of Madame Monti ; and it wa* 

* Opere Varie, v. iii. This sonnet to his wife was written whe» 
tfonti was ill at the house of his son-in-law, Count Perticari 
t Edit. 1826, vol. vi. 



MONTI and ill- u n r. 413 

here thai hei husband, now declining in years, 

Weak from recent illness and accumulated infir- 
mities, addressed t<> her the poem which may be 

found in the recent edition of his works; it begin* 
thus tenderly ;md sweetly — 

Donna ! den 1 alma mia parte pin c 

r<>rcln x > amta in pensosa atto mi guuti? 

]•' dJ segrete stille, 

Rugiadose si (an le fcue pupillc? &o. 

" Why, () thou dearer half of my soul, dost thou 

watch over me thus mute and pensive ? Why are 
thine eyes heavy with suppressed tears?" &C. 

And when he reminds her tnuehm<rly, that his 

Long and troubled life is drawing to its natural 

close, and that she. cannot hope to retain him much 
longer, even by all her love and care, — he adds 
with a noble spirit, — " Remember, that Monti can- 
not wholly die ! think, O think ! 1 leave thee dow- 
ered with no obscure, no vulgar name ! for the day 
shall come, when, among the matrons of Italy, if 
Fhall be thy boast to say, — ' I was the love of Mon- 
ti.'"* 

The tender translation to his daughter — 

E tu del pnri svenrnrata e cara mia figlia! 

is alike unhappy and beloved, alludes to her re- 
cent widowhood. Costanza Monti, who inherited 
no small portion of her father's genius, and all her 
mother's grace and beauty, married the Count 

* In the original, Monti designates himself by an allusion U 
Us chef-d'oeuvre — " Del Cantor di BasviLle." 



414 POETS AND BEAUTIES. 

Giulio Perticari of Pesaro, a man of unoommoi 
taste and talents, and an admired poet. He died 
in the same year with Canova, to whom he had 
been a favorite friend and companion : while his 
lovely wife furnished the sculptor with a model for 
his ideal heads of vestals and poetesses. Those 
who saw the Countess Pei ticari at Rome, such as 
she appeared seven or eight years ago, will not 
easily forget her brilliant eyes, and yet more bril- 
liant talents. She, too, is a poetess. In her father's 
works may be found a little canzone written by her 
about a year after the death of her husband, and 
with equal tenderness and simplicity, alluding to 
her lonely state, deprived of him who once encour- 
aged and cultivated her talents, and deserved her 
love.* 

Vincenzo Monti died in October, 1828 ; — his 
widow and his daughter reside, I believe, at Milan. 



< im i" 



CHAPTER XXIH. 

POETS AND BEAUTIES, 
FROM CHARLES H. TO QUEEN ANNE. 

Thus, then, it appears, that love, even the mosf 
ethereal and poetical, does not always take fligh) 
* Monti, Opere, vol. iii. p. 75. 



POJITfl am> Bl \t i ii B. 415 

" it light of human tic-;;" ami Pope wronged tlie 
reel delicacy of Beloise irhen he put tin- borrowed 
sentiment into her epistle, making that conduct tho 
result of perverted principle, which, in ear, was a 
sacrifice to extreme love and pride in its object. 

Ir is not the mere idea of bondage wlmh frighten* 

away the light-winged god; 

The gentle bird feels no captivity 

Within his cage, but sings and feeds his fid.* 

It is when those bonds, which were first decreed in 
heaven 

To keep two hearts together, which began 
Their spring-time with one love, 

are abused to vilest purposes : — to link together 
mdissolubly. unworthineSB with desert, truth with 
falsehood, brutality with gentleness; then, indeed, 
love is seared ; his cage becomes a dungeon ; — and 
either he breaks away, with plumage all impaired, 
— or folds up his many-colored wings, and droops 
and dies. 

But then it will be said, perhaps, that the splen- 
dor and the (.'harm which poetry has thrown over 
some of these pictures of conjugal affection and 
wedded truth, are exterior and adventitious, or, at 
best, shore-lived : — the bands were at first graceful 
*nd flowery; — but sorrow dewed them with tears, 
or selfish passions sullied them, or death tore them 

• Spenser 



416 POETS AND BEAUTIES 

asunder, or trampled them down. It may be so 
but still, I will aver that what has been, is ; — that 
there is a power in the human heart which sur- 
vives sorrow, passion, age, death itself. 

Love I esteem more strong than age, 
And truth more permanent than time. 

For happiness, c'est different ! and for that bright 
and pure and intoxicating happiness which we 
weave into our youthful visions, which is of such 
stuff as dreams are made of, — to complain that this 
does not last and wait upon us through life, is to 
complain that earth is earth, not heaven. It is to 
repine that the violet does not outlive the spring ; 
that the rose dies upon the breast of June ; that 
the gray evening shuts up the eye of day, and that 
old age quenches the glow of youth : for is not such 
the condition under which we exist ? All I wished 
to prove was, that the sacred tie which binds the 
sexes together, which gives to man his natural 
refuge in the tenderness of woman, and to woman 
her natural protecting stay in the right reason and 
stronger powers of man, so far from being a chill 
to the imagination, as wicked wits would tell us, 
has its poetical side. Let us look back for a mo- 
ment on the array of bright names and beautiful 
verse, quoted or alluded to in the preceding chap- 
ters : what is there among the mercurial poets of 
Charles's days, those notorious scoffers at decency 
and constancy to comoare with them ? — Dorset 
and Denham, and Sedley and Suckling, and Eoch 



POSTS A3XD BBAUTUSi 417 

*ater, — "the mob of gentlemen who wrote with 
ease," with their smooth emptiness, and pparkling 
commonplaces of artificial courtship, and total want 
of moral sentiment, have degraded, not elevated 
the loves they Bang. Conld these gallanl fops rise 
op from their graves, and see themselves exiled 

With Contempt from every woman's toilet, every 
woman's library, every woman's memory, they 
would choke themselves with their own periwigs, 
eat theil laeetl cravats, hang themselves in their 

own Bword-knots I — "to be discarded thence!" 

Turn thy complexion there, 
Thou simpering, smooth-lipp'd cherub, Coxcombry, 
Ay, there, look grim as belli 

And such be the fate of all who dare profane the 
altar of beauty with adulterate incense 1 

For wit is like the frail luxuriant vine, 

Unless to virtue's prop it join ; 

Though it with beauteous leaves and pleasant fruit be 

crown'd, 
It lies deform'd and rotting on the ground ! 

These lines are from Cowley, a great name 

anions the poets of those days ; but he has sunk 

into a name. We may repeat with Pope, " Who 

now reads Cowley ? " and this, not because he waa 

licentious, but because, with all his elaborate wit, 

and brilliant and uncommon thoughts, he is as 

frigid as ice itself " A little ingenuity and arti- 
er J 

Gee," as Mrs. Malaprop would say, is well enough 
out Cowley, in his amatory poetry, is all artifice 



418 POETS AND BEAUTIES. 

He coolly sat down to write a volume of lore 
verses, that he might, to use his own expression, 
" be free of his craft, as a poet ; " and in his pre- 
face, he protests " that his testimony should not b<» 
taken against himself." Here was a poet, and a 
lover ! who sets out by begging his readers, in the 
first place, not to believe him. This was like the 
weaver, in the Midsummer Night's Dream, who 
was so anxious to assure the audience " that Pyra- 
mus was not killed indeed, and that he, Pyramus, 
was not Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver." But 
Cowley's amatory verse disproves itself, without 
the help of a prologue. It is, in his own phrase, 
" all sophisticate." Even his sparkling chronicle 
of beauties, 

Margaretta first possest, 

If I remember well, my breast, &c. 

is mere fancy, and in truth it is a pity. Cowley 
was once in love, after his querulous melancholy 
fashion ; but he never had the courage to avow it. 
The lady alluded to in the last verse of the Chron- 
icle, as 

Eleonora, first of the name, 
Whom God grant long to reign, 

was the object of this luckless attachment. She 
afterwards married a brother of Dr. Spratt, Bishop 
of Rochester,* who had not probably half the 
poet's wit or fame, but who could love as well and 
gpeak better ; and the gentle, amiable Cowhvf 
Aied an old bachelor. 

* Spence's Anecdotes, Sing. edit. 



POJ I- \M« HI U Ml & 419 

Theee writers maj bare merit ofa different kind; 
Jbey ni.i v be read by vrita for the take of their wit; 
but they have failed in the great object of lyric 
poetry : they neither create sympathy for them* 
selves, nor interest, oor respecl for their mistre 
they were not in earnest; — and what woman of 
sense and fueling was ever touched by a compli- 
ment which no woman ever inspired ? or pleased, 
by being addressed with the swaggering license of 
a libertine? Who cares to inquire after the origi- 
nals of their Belindas and Clorindas — their Chloes, 
Delia-, and Phillises, with their pastoral nam''-, 
and loves— that were any thing but pastoral? 
There is not one among the flaunting coquettes, 
or profligate women of fashion, sung by these gay 
coxcomb poets, 

Those goddesses, so blithe, so smooth, so gay 
Yet empty of :\11 good wherein coi 
Woman's domestic honor and chief praise, 

who has obtained, an interest in our memory, or a 
permanent place in the history of our literature; 
not one, who would not be eclipsed by Bonnie 
.lean, or Highland Mary ! It is true, that the aire 
produced several remarkable women; a Lady 
Russell, that heroine of heroines 1 a Lady Fan- 
ihawe ;* a Mrs. Hutchinson ; who needed no poet 
to trumpet forth their praise : and others, — some 
telebrated for the possession ot beauty and talents, 

* See he? beautiful Memoirs, recently published. 



420 POETS ANI/ BEAUTIES. 

and too many notorious for the abuse of both. But 
there were no poetical heroines, properly so called, 
— no Laura, no Geraldine, no Saccharissa. Among 
the temporary idols of the day, (by which name 
we shall distinguish those women whose beauty 
rank, and patronage, procured them a sort of poet- 
ical celebrity, very different from the halo of splen- 
dor which love and genius cast round a chosen 
divinity,) there are one or two who deserve to be 
particularized. 

The first of these was Maria Beatrice d'Este, the 
daughter of the Duke of Modena, second wife of 
James Duke of York, and afterwards his queen. 
She was married, at the age of fifteen, to a profli- 
gate prince, as ugly as his brother Charles, (with- 
out any of his captivating graces of figure and 
manner,) and old enough to be her grandfather. 
She made the best of wives to one of the most unam- 
iable of men. All writers of all parties are agreed, 
that slander itself was disarmed by the unoffending 
gentleness of her character ; all are agreed too, on 
the subject of her uncommon loveliness : she was 
quite an Italian beauty, with a tall, dignified, grace- 
ful figure, regular features, and dark eyes, a com- 
plexion rather pale and fair, and hair and eyebrows 
black as the raven's wing; so that in personal 
graces, as in virtues, she fairly justified the raptur- 
ous eulogies of all the poets of her time. Thui 
Dryden : 

What awful charms on her fair forehead sit, 
Dispensing what she never will admit; 



UUTE mi.i i <;i:i.\v. 4 21 

rleatj -like Oyntbia'i silver ' 

The people's wonder, and t! ne! 

Sin- captivated hearts almost as fast as James the 

BeCOnd lOBl them ; 

And Envy did but look on her and died!* 

luM-iall from the throne she bo adorned ; her escape 

with her infant son, under the care of the Due <le 
Lau/un;t her conduct during her retirement at 

St. Qermains, with a dull court, and a stupid big- 
oted husband, are all matters of history, and might 

have inspired, one would think, better verses than 

were ever written upon her. Lord Lansdown 
exclaims, with an enthusiasm which was at least 
disinterested — 

happy James! content thy mighty mind! 
Grudge not the world, tor still thy Queen is kind, — 
To lie but at whose feet, more glory brings, 
Than 'tis to tread on sceptres and on kings! \ 

Anne Killegrew, who has been immortalized by 
Dryden, in the ode,§ 

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies 1 

does not seem to have possessed any talents or ac- 
quirements which would render her very remark- 

• Dryden's Works, by Scott, vol. xl. p. 82. 
The Due do Lauzun of Mademoiselle de Montpensier. 

X Grenville's Works, — " Progress of Beauty.'' 

$ ' To the pious memory of the accomplished young lady, Misi 
4nne Killegrew, excellent in the two sister arts of poesy and 
painting." 



122 POETS AND BEAUTIES. 

able in these days ; though in her own time she 
was styled " a grace for beauty and a muse for 
wit." Her youth, her accomplishments, her capt> 
vating person, her station at court, (as a maid of 
honor to Maria d'Este, then Duchess of York,) and 
her premature death at the age of twenty-four, all 
conspired to render her interesting to her contem- 
poraries ; and Dryden has given her a fame which 
cannot die. The stanza in this ode, in which the 
poet for himself and others, pleads guilty of having 
" made prostitute and profligate the muse," 

Whose harmony was first ordain' d above 
For tongues of angels and for hymns of love ! 

— the sudden turn in praise of the young poetess, 
whose verse flowed pure as her own mind and 
heart ; and the burst of enthusiasm — 

Let this thy vestal, heaven ! atone for all ! 

are exceeding beautiful. His description of her 
skill in painting both landscape and portraits, would 
answer for a Claude, or a Titian. We are a little 
disappointed to find, after all this pomp and prodi- 
gality of praise, that Anne Killegrew's paintings 
were mediocre ; and that her poetry has sunk, not 
undeservedly, into oblivion. She died of the small- 
pox in 1685. 

The famous Tom Killegrew, jester (by courtesy 
to Charles the Second, was her uncle. 

There was also the young Duchess of Ormond 
(Lady Mary Somerset, daughter of the Duke of 



LADY IIVDF. 12S 

Beaufort) She married into i famOi which had 
been, tor three generations, die patrons and bene- 
faction of Dryden ; and never was patronage .ho 

riehh repaid. To this DucheSB of Onnond, Dry- 
ilen has dedicated the Tale of Palemon and Areite, 
in an opening address lull of poetry and compli- 
ment ; happily both justified and merited by the 
object. 

Lady Hyde, afterwards Countess of Clarendon 
and Rochester, was in her time a favorite theme of 
gay and gallant verse ; but she maintained with her 
extreme beauty and gentleness of deportment, a 
dignity of conduct which disarmed scandal, and 
kept presumptuous wits as well as presumptuous 
fops at a distance. Lord Lansdown has crowned 
her with praise, very pointed and elegant, and 
seems to have contrasted her at the moment, with 
his coquettish Mira, Lady Newburgh. 

Others, by guilty artifice and arts, 

And promised kindness, practise on our hearts; 

With expectation blow the passion up; 

She fans the fire without one gale of hope.* 

Lady Hyde was the daughter of Sir William 
Leveson Gower, (ancestor to the Marquis of Staf- 
ford,) and mother of that Lord Cornbury, who has 
been celebrated by Pope and Thomson. 

The second daughter of this lovely and amiable 
woman, Lady Catherine Hyde, was Prior's famous 
Kitty. 

• S*e the lines on Lady Hyde'B pictnre in GranYille'B Poenu 



424 POETS AND BEAUTIES. 

Beautiful and young, 
And wild as colt untam'd, 

the "female Phaeton," who obtained mammaV 
chariot for a day, to set the world on fire. 

Shall I thumb holy books, confin'd 

With Abigails forsaken? 
Kitty's for other things design 'd, 

Or I am much mistaken. 

Must Lady Jenny frisk about, 

And visit with her cousins ? 
At balls must she make all this rout, 

And bring home hearts by dozens ? 

What has she better, pray, than I ? 

What hidden charms to boast, 
That all mankind for her must die, 

Whilst I am scarce a toast? 

Dearest Mamma ! for once, let me 

Unchain'd my fortune try : 
I'll have my Earl as well as she, 

Or know the reason why. 

Fondness prevail' d, Mamma gave way; 

Kitty, at heart's desire, 
Obtain' d the chariot for a day, 

And set the world on fire ! 

Kitty not only set the world on fire, but more 
than accomplished her magnanimous resolution to 
have an Earl as well as her sister, Lady Jenny * 
She married the Duke of Queensbury : and as (hat 
Duchess of Queensbury, who was the friend and 

* Lady Jane Hyde married the Earl of Essex. 



r. u»y iivDi-. 4 23 

patroneai of Gray, is still farther connected with the 

history of our poetical literature. Pope paid a 
Domplimenl to her beanty, in a well-known couplet, 
which is more refined in the application than in tho 
Bxprearion : — 

It Qneensbury to strip there 's no compelling, 

'lis from :i handmaid we must take a Helen. 

Slu- was an amiable, exemplary woman, and poa- 
Beased thai beat and only preservative of youth and 
beauty, — a kind, cheerful disposition and buoyant 
spirits. When she walked at the coronation of 
George the Third, she was still so strikingly attrac- 
tive, that Horace Walpole handed to her the fol- 
lowing impromptu, written on a leaf of his pocket* 

book, 

To many a Kitty, Love, his car, 

Would for a day engage; 
But Prior's Kitty, ever fair, 

Obtained it for an age! 

She is also alluded to in Thomson's Seasons. 

And stooping thence to Ham's embowering walks, 
Beneath whose shades, in spotless peace rctir'd, 
With her the pleasing partner of his heart, 
The worthy Qneensbury yet laments his Gay. 

/Summer. 

The Duchess of Queensbury died in 1777.* 

' On the death of Gay, Swift had addressed to the Duchess a 
Wtter of condolence in his usual cynical style. The DuehflBS re 
plied with fooling — " I differ from you, that it is possible to com- 
Jort one'* self for the loss of friends, as one doe? for the loss of 
toou«y. I think I could live on rery little, nor think myself 



420 POETS AND BEAUTIES. 

Two other women, who lived about the same 
time, possess a degree of celebrity which, though 
but a sound — a name — rather than a feeling or an 
interest, must not pass unnoticed ; more particu- 
larly as they will farther illustrate the theory we 
have hitherto kept in view. I allude to " Gran- 
ville's Mira," and " Prior's Chloe." 

For the fame of the first, a single line of Pope 
has done more than all the verses of Lord Lans- 
down : it is in the Epistle to Jervas the painter — 

With Zeuxis' Helen, thy Bridgewater vie, 
And these be sung, till Granville's Mira die! 

Now, " Granville's Mira " would have been dead 
long ago, had she not been preserved in some ma- 
terial more precious and lasting than the poetry of 
her noble admirer : she shines, however, " em- 
balmed in the lucid amber " of Pope's lines ; and 
we not only wonder how she got there, but are 
tempted to inquire who she was, or if ever she was 
at all. 

Granville's Mira was Lady Frances Brudenel, 
third daughter of the Earl of Cardigan. She was 
married very young to Livingstone, Earl of New- 
burgh ; and Granville's first introduction to her 
must have taken place soon after her marriage, in 
2690; he was then about twenty, already distin- 

poor, nor be thought so ; but a little friendship could never sat- 
isfy one. In almost every thing but friends, another of the same 
name may do as well ; but friend is more than a name, if it b» 
any thing." — This is true; but, as Touchstone says — " much Tte 
tue in iff" 



.'I. \\ VII I ,.'- MIKA. 427 

roished lor thai elegance of mind and manner, 
which has handed him down bo us ai M Granville 

fuc polite." He Joined the crowd of Lady New- 
burgh's adorers, and as some praise, and some 
lucky lines had persuaded him thai he was a poet, 

he chose to consecrate his verse to this fashionable 

beauty. 

In all the mass of poetry, or rather rhyme, ad- 
dressed to Lady Newburgh, there is not a passage, 
— not a single line which can throw an interest 
round her character; all we can make out is, that 
she was extremely beautiful; that she sang well ; 
and that she was a most finished, heartless coquette. 
Thus her lover has pictured her : 

Lost in a labyrinth of doubts and joys, 

Whom now her smiles revived, her scorn destroys; 

She will, and she will not, she grants, denies, 

Consents, retracts; advances, and then flies. 

Approving and rejecting in a breath, 

Now proffering mercy, now presenting death ! 

She led Granville on from year to year, till the 
death of her first husband, Lord Newburgh. He 
then presented himself among tV3 suitors for her 
hand, confiding, it seems, in former encouragement 
or promises ; but Lady Newburgh had played the 
game despicable game with others ; she had no 
objection to the poetical admiration of an accom- 
plished young man or" fashion, who had rendered 
her an object of universal attention, by his deter- 
mined pursuit and tuneful homage, and who was 



428 POETS AND BEAUTIES. 

then the admired of all women. She thought, like 
the coquette, in one of Congreve's comedies, 

If there's delight in love, 'tis when I see 

The heart that others bleed for — bleed for me ! 

But when free to choose, she rejected him and 
married Lord Bellew. Her coquettry with Gran- 
ville had been so notorious, that this marriage 
caused a great sensation at the time and no little 
scandal. 

Kumor is loud, and every voice proclaims 
Her violated faith and conscious flames. 

The only catastrophe, however, which her false- 
hood occasioned, was the production of a long 
elegy, in imitation of Theocritus, which concludes 
Lord Lansdown's amatory effusions. He after- 
wards married Lady Anne Villiers, with whom he 
lived happily : after a union of more than twenty 
years, they died within a few days of each other, 
and they were buried together. 

Lady Newburgh left a daughter by her first hus- 
band * and a son and daughter by Lord Bellew; 
she lived to survive her beauty, to lose her admir- 
ers, and to be the object in her old age of the most 
gross and unmeasured satire ; the flattery of a lover 
elevated her to a divinity, and the malise of a wit, 
whom she had ill-treated, degraded her into a fury 
and a hag — with about as much reason. 

•Charlotte, Countess of Newburgh in her own right, frci» 
whom the present Earl of Newburgh is descended. 



PRIOR'S OHLOl ■ 429 

Prior's Chloe, the u nut-brown maid," was taken 

from tin- opposite extremity of society, l>ut could 
icarce have been more worthless. She was a com- 
mon woman of the lowest description, whose real 
name was, I believe, Nancy Derham, — hut it i- not 
a matter of much importance. 

Prior's attachment tO this woman, however mi- 

merited, was very sincere. For her Bake he quitted 

the high society into which his talents and his polit- 
ical connections had introduced him ; and for her, 
lie neglected, as he tells us — 

Whate'er the world thinks wise and grave, 
Ambition, business, friendship, news, 
My useful books and serious muse, 

to bury himself with her in some low tavern for 
weeks together. Once, when they quarrelled, she 

ran awaj and carried oil" his plate; but even this 
could no", shake his constancy : at his death he left 
her all be possessed, and she — his Chloe — at whose 
command and in whose honor he wrote his " Henry 
and Emma," — married a cobbler!* Such was 
Prior's Chloe, 

Is it surprising that the works of a poet once so 
popular, should now be banished from a lady's 
library ? — a banishment from which all his sprightly 
wit cannot redeem him. But because Prior's love 
for this roiiKin was real, and that he was really a 
man of feeling and genius, though debased by low 
*nd irregular habits, there are some sweet touches 

* Spence'8 Anecdotes 



SO POETS AND BEAUTIES. 

icattered through his poetry, which show how 
strong was the illusion in his fancy : — as in " Chloe 
Jealous/' 

heading thy verse, " who cares," said I, 
" If here or there his glasces flew ? 

v, tree forever be his eye, 
Whose heart to me is always true ! " 

^nd in his ** Answer to Chloe Jealous." 

when I am wearied with wandering all day 
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come. 

No matter what beauties I saw in my way, 
They were but my visits, but thou art my home ! 

The address to Chloe, with which the "Nut 
brown Maid " commences, 

Thou, to whose eyes I bend, &c. 

will ever be admired, and the poems will always 
find readers among the young and gentle-hearted 
who have not yet learned to be critics or to trem- 
ble at the fiat of Dr. Johnson. It is perhaps one 
*f the most popular poems in the language. 



•TELIA AND VANESSA. 431 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

STELLA AND VANESSA. 

It is difficult to consider Swift as a poet. So 
many unamiable, disagreeable, unpoetica] ideas are 
connected with his name, that, great as he was in 
lame and intellectual vigor, he seems as misplaced in 
tlie temple of the muses as one of his own yahoos. 
But who has not heard of " Swift's Stella?" and 
of Cadenus and Vanessa? Though all will confess 
that the two devoted women, who fell victims to his 
barbarous selfishness, and whose names are eter- 
nally linked with the history of our literature, are 
far more interesting, from their ill-bestowed, ill- 
requited and passionate attachment to him, than 
by any thing he ever sung or said of them* Nay, 
his most elaborate, and his most admired poem — 
the avowed history of one of his attachments — with 
its insipid tawdry table, its conclusion in which 
nothing is concluded, and the inferences we are left 
to draw from it, would have given but an ignomin- 

•As Swift said truly and wittily of himself: 
As when a lofty pile is raised, 
We never hear the workmen pn&fled, 

Who briug the lime or place the stones. 

But all admire Inigo Jones; 

So if this pile of scattered rhymes 

8hould be approved in after-times, 

If it both pleases and endures. 

The merit and the praise are yours !- - Verses to Stella 



432 SWIFT. 

icms celebrity to poor Vanessa, if truth and time, 
and her own sweet nature, had not redeemed her. 

I pass over Swift's early attachment to Jane 
Waryng, whom he deserted after a seven years' 
engagement ; she is not in any way connected with 
his literary history, — and what became of her after- 
wards is not known. He excused himself by some 
pitiful subterfuges about fortune ; but it appears, 
from a comparison of dates, that the occasion of his 
breaking off with her, was his rising partiality for 
another. 

When Swift was an inmate of Sir William Tem- 
ple's family at Moor Park, he met with Esther 
Johnson, who appears to have been a kind of 
humble companion to Sir William's niece, Miss 
Gifford. She is said by some to have been the 
daughter of Sir William's steward ; by others we 
are told that her father was a London merchant, 
who had failed in business. This was the inter- 
esting and ill-fated woman, since renowned as 
" Swift's Stella." 

She was then a blooming girl of fifteen, with 
silky black hair, brilliant eyes, and delicate fea- 
tures. Her disposition was gentle and affection- 
ate ; and she had a mind of no common order 
Swift sometimes employed his leisure in instructing 
Sir William's niece, and Stella was the companion 
of her studies. Her beauty, talents, and docility, 
interested her preceptor, who, though considerably 
older than herself, was in the vigor of his life and 
intellectual powers; and she repaid this interest 



RTEM.A AND VANESSA. 483 

witli .-ill the idolatry of a young unpractised heart, 
mingled with a gratitude and reverence almost 
fill.* 1 . When he took possession of his living in 
Ireland, he might have married herj for sin- loved 
him, and he knew it. She was perfectly indepen- 
dent of any family ties, and had a small p r op e rty 
of her own : lmt what were really his views or his 
intentions it is impossible to guess; nor are the 
reasons of that most e x traordinary arrangement, 
by which he contrived to bind this devoted crea- 
ture, to him for lite, and to enslave her heart and 
bouI to him forever, without assuming the character 
fit her of a husband or a lover. He persuaded her 
to leave England ; and. under the sanction and 
protection of a respeetablc elderly woman named 
Dingley, often alluded to in his humorous poems, 
to take up her residence near him at Laracor. 
Subsequently, when he became Dean of St. Pat- 
rick's, she had a lodging in Dublin. He was ac- 
customed to spend part of every day in her society, 
but never without the presence of a third person ; 
and when he was absent, the two ladies took pos- 
session of his residence, and occupied it till his 
return. 

Two years after her removal to Ireland, and 
when she was in her twentieth year, Stella was 
addressed by a young clergyman, whose name was 
Tisdal: and sensible of the humiliating and equiv- 
ocal situation in which she was placed, and unable 
to bring Swift to any explanation of his views or 
lentiments, she appears to have been iuclined to 
28 



434 



favor the addresses of her new admirer. He pro- 
posed in form ; but Swift, without in any way com* 
mitting himself, contrived to prevent the marriage. 
Stella found herself precisely in the same situation 
as before, and every year increased his influence 
over her young and gentle spirit, as habit con- 
firmed and strengthened the bonds of a first affec- 
tion. She lived on in the hope that he would at 
length marry her ; bearing his sullen outbreakings 
of temper, soothing his morbid misanthropy, cheer- 
ing and adorning his life; and giving herself 
every day fresh claims to his love, compassion, and 
gratitude, by her sufferings, her virtues, her patient 
gentleness, and her exclusive devotion ; — and all 
availed not ! During this extraordinary connection, 
Swift was accustomed to address her in verse. 
Some of these poems, though worthless as poetry, 
derive interest from the beauty of her character, 
and from that concentrated vigor of expression 
which was the characteristic of all he wrote ; as in 
this descriptive passage : — 

Her hearers are amazed from whence 
Proceeds that fund of wit and sense, 
Which, though her modesty would shr^i I, 
Breaks like the sun behind a cloud ; 
While gracefulness its art conceals, 
And yet through every motion steals. 
Say, Stella, was Prometheus blind, 
And forming you, mistook your kind * 
No: 'twas for you alone he stole 
The fire that forms a manly soul ; 
Then, to complete it every way, 



htki.i. \ .w.» v UfEM v. 435 

ilo moulded it with female olayi 
To thai yon owe the nobler Borne, 
To (hit the beauty of your frame. 

Be complimentfl her sincerity and firmness of 
principle in four nervous lines: 

Ten thousand oaths upon record 
Are not so sacred as her word I 
The world shall in its atoms end 
Ere Stella can deceive a friend! 

Her tender attention to him in sickness and 
mffering, is thus described, with a tolerable insight 
into his own character. 

To her I owe 
That I these pains can undergo; 
She tends me like an humble slave, 
And, when indecently I rave, 
When out my brutish passions break, 
With gall in every word I speak, 
She, with soft speech, my anguish cheers, 
Or melts my passions down with tears: 
Although 'tis easy to descry 
She wants assistance more than I, 
She seems to feel my pains alone, 
And is a Stoic to her own. 
Where, among scholars, can you find 
So soft, and yet 60 firm a mind ? 

These lines, dated March, 1724, are the mors 
re f.arkable, because they refer to a period when 
Stella had much to forgive ;— when she had jusl 
been injured, in the tenderest point, by the man 
who owed to her tenderness and forbearance al 



i'66 SWIFT. 

the happiness that his savage temper allowed him 
to taste on earth. 

As Stella passed much of her time in solitude, 
she read a great deal. She received Swift's friends, 
many of whom were clever and distinguished men 
particularly Sheridan and Delany; and on hia 
public days she dined as a guest at his table, where, 
says his biographer,* " the modesty of her man- 
ners, the sweetness of her disposition, and the bril- 
liance of her wit, rendered her the general object 
cf admiration to all who were so happy as to have 
a place in that enviable society." 

Johnson says that, " if Swift's ideas of women 
were such as he generally exhibits, a very little 
sense in a lady would enrapture, and a very little 
virtue astonish him ; " and thinks, therefore, that 
Stella's supremacy might be " only local and com- 
parative ; " but it is not the less true, that she was 
beheld with tenderness and admiration by all who 
approached her ; and whether she could spell or 
not, f she could certainly write very pretty verses, 
considering whom she had chosen for her model : — ■ 
for instance, the following little effusion, in reply 
to a compliment addressed to her : 

If it be true, celestial powers, 
That you have formed me fair, 

And yet, in all my vunest hours, 
My mind has been my care ; 

• Sheridan's Life of Swift. 

t Dr. Johnson, who allows Stella to have been "virtuous 
beautiful, and elegant," says she could not spell her own Ian 
ruage : in those days few women could spell accurately. 



8TKI Li v.\r> v LNBSfl L 437 

Then, in return, ' -iico, 

: were ever kin<i, 
What envious thne takes from mv f:ice, 
opon my mind! 

She had continued to live on in thia strange un- 
iefinable state of dependence for fourteen years, 
u in pale contented sort of discontent," though her 

ipirit was so borne down by the habitual awe in 
which he held her, that she never complained — 
wh-ai the suspicion that a younger awl fairer rival 
had usurped the heart she possessed, if not the 
rights she coveted, added the tortures of jealousy 
to those of lingering suspense and mortified affec- 
tion. 

A new attachment had, in fact, almost entirely 
estranged Bwifl from her, and from his home. 
While in London, from 1710 to 1712, he was ac- 
customed to visit at the house of Mrs. Vanhomri"h, 
and became so intimate, that during his attendance 
on the ministry at that time, he was accustomed to 
change his wig and gown, and drink his coffee 
then> almost daily. Mrs. Vanhomrigh had two 
daughters: the eldest, Esther, was destined to be 
the second victim of Swift's detestable selfishness, 
and become celebrated under the name of Va- 
nessa. 

She was a character altogether different from 
that of Stella. Not quite so beautiful in person, 
but with all the freshness and vivacity of youth— 
^he was not twenty,) and adding to the advan- 
tages o/ polished manners and lively talents, a 



438 SWIFT. 

frank confiding temper, and a capacity for strong 
affections. She was rich, admired, happy, and 
diffusing happiness. Swift, as I have said, visited 
at the house of her mother. His age, his celebrity, 
his character as a clergyman, gave him privileges 
of which he availed himself. He was pleased with 
Miss Vanhomrigh's talents, and undertook to direct 
her studies. She was ignorant of the ties which 
bound him to the unhappy Stella; and charmed 
by his powers of conversation, dazzled by his fame, 
won and flattered by his attentions, surrendered 
her heart and soul to him before she was aware ; 
and her love partaking of the vivacity of her 
character, not only absorbed every other feeling, 
but, as she expressed it herself, " became blended 
with every atom of her frame." * 

Swift, among his other lessons, took pains to 
impress her with his own favorite maxims (it had 
been well for both had he acted up to them him- 
self) — " to speak the truth on all occasions, and at 
every hazard : and to do what seemed right in 
itself, without regard to the opinions or customs of 
the world." He appears also to have insinuated 
the idea, that the disparity of their age and fortune 
rendered him distrustful of his own powers of 
pleasing.f She was thus led on, by his open ad- 
miration, and her own frank temper, to betray 
the state of her affections, and proffered to him 

* See her Letters. 

f See some very poor verses found in Miss Vanbomrigh's desk 
,ni inserted in his poems, vol. x. p. 14. 



STELLA and \.\\i 439 

her hand and fortune. He had n<>t sufficient 
humanity, lionor, or courage, to disclose the truth 

of hifl .situation, hut replied to the avowal of this 

innocent and warm-hearted girl, first in a tone of 
raillery, and then by an equivocal offer of ever- 
,/u<tin«4 friendship. 

The scene is thus given in Cadenus and Vanessa. 

Vanessa, though by Pallas taught, 

By love invulnerable thought, 

Searching in books for wisdom'd aid, 

Was in the very search betrayed. 

* * ' * * 

Cadenus many tilings had writ; 

Vanessa much esteemed his wit, 

And call'd for his poetic works. 

Meantime the boy in secret lurks; 

And, while the book was in her hand 

The urchin from his private stand 

Took aim, and shot with all his strength 

A dart of such prodigious length, 

It pierced the feeble volume through, 

And deep tranfix'd her bosom too. 

Some lines, more moving than the rest, 

Stuck to the point that pierced her breast, 

And borne directly to the heart, 

With pains unknown, increas'd her smart. 

Vanessa, not in years a score, 

Dreams of a gown of forty-four; 

Imaginary charms can find, 

In eyes with reading almost blind. 

Cadenus now no more appears 

Declin'd in health, advanc'd in years; 

She fancies music in his tongue, 

Nor farther looks, but thinks him young. 



440 SWIFT. 

Vanessa is then made to disclose her tendernesa 
The expressions and the sentiments are probably 
as true to the facts as was consistent with the 
rhyme : but how cold, how flat, how prosaic ! nc 
emotion falters in the lines — not a feeling blushes 
through them ! — as if an ardent but delicate and 
gentle girl would ever have made a first avowal of 
passion in this chop-logic style — 

"Now," said the Nymph, " to let you see 

My actions with your rules agree ; 

That I can vulgar forms despise, 

And have no secrets to disguise ; 

I knew, by what you said and writ, 

How dangerous things were men of wit ; 

You caution' d me against their charms, 

But never gave me equal arms ; 

Your lessons found the weakest part, 

Aim'd at the head, but reached the heart!" 

Cadenus felt within him rise 

Shame, disappointment, guilt, surprise, &c. 

***** 

It is possible he might have felt thus ; and yet the 
excess of his surprise and disappointment on the 
occasion, may be doubted. He makes, however, a 
very candid confession of his own vanity. 

Cadenus, to his grief and shame, 
Could scarce oppose Vanessa's flame ; 
And though her arguments were strong, 
At least could hardly wish them wrong: 
Howe'er it came, he could not tell, 
But sure she never talked so well. 
His pride began to interpose; 



HTKI.I.A AND VANESSA. 441 

Preferred before a crowd of beaux 
Bo bright a nymph to oame unsought 
Booh wonder by his merit wrought! 
'TIs merll must with her prevail! 
lie oerar knew her judgment fail. 

She noted all she over read, 
And had a most discerning head! 

The scene continues — he rallies her, and afltjete to 
think it all 

Just what coxcombs call a bite, 

(such is his elegant phrase.) He then offers her 
friendship instead of love : the lady replies with 
Very pertinent arguments; and finally, the tale is 
concluded in this ambiguous passage, in which we 
must allow that great room is left for scandal, for 
doubt, and for curiosity. 

But what success Vanessa met 

Is to the world a secret yet ; — 

Whether the nymph, to please her swain, 

Talks in a high romantic strain, 

Or whether he at last descends 

To act with less seraphic ends; 

Or to compound the business, whether 

They temper love and books together; 

Must never to mankind be told, 

Nor shall the conscious Muse unfold. 

Such is the story of this celebrated poem. The 
passion, the circumstances, the feelings are real, 
%nd it contains lines of great power ; and yet. 
assuredly, the perusal of it never conveyed one 



142 SWIFT. 

emotion to the reader's heart, except of indignation 
against the writer ; not a spark of poetry, fancy 
or pathos, breathes throughout. We have a dull 
mythological fable, in which Venus and the Graces 
descend to clothe Vanessa in all the attractions of 
her sex : — 

The Graces next would act their part, 
And showed but little of their art; 
Their work was half already done, 
The child with native beauty shone, 
The outward form no help required ; — 
Each, breathing on her thrice, inspired 
That gentle, soft, engaging air, 
Which in old times advanced the fair. 

And Pallas is tricked by the wiles of Venus into 
doing her part. — The Queen of Learning 

Mistakes Vanessa for a boy; 
Then sows within her tender mind 
Seeds long unknown to womankind, 
For manly bosoms chiefly fit, — 
The seeds of knowledge, judgment, wit. 
Her soul was suddenly endued 
With justice, truth, and fortitude, — 
With honor, which no breath can stain, 
Which malice must attack in vain: 
With open heart and bounteous hand, &c. 

The nymph thus accomplished is feared by the 
men and hated by the women, and Swift haa 
ghown his utter want of heart and good taste, by 
making his homage to the woman he loved, a 
vehicle for the bitterest satire on the rest of he? 



RTF! I. A AM) VA.MI88A. 443 

lex. What right had be to accuse u of a universal 
preference for mere coxcombs, — he who, through 
the sol,- power of his wit and intellect, had inspired 
with the most passionate attachment two lovely 
women act half hie own age ? Be it remembered, 

that while Swift was playing the Abelard with 
Rich effect, he was in his forty-fifth year, and 
though 

Hfl moved and bowed, and talked with so much grace 
Nor showed the parson in his gait or face,* 

he was one of the ugliest men in existence, — of a 
bilious, saturnine complexion, and a most forbidding 
countenance. 

The poem of Cadenus and Vanessa was written 
immediately en his return to Ireland and to Stella, 
(where he describes himself devoured by melan- 
choly and regret,) and sent to Vanessa. Her 
passion and her inexperience seem to have blinded 
her to what was humiliating to herself in this poem, 
and left her sensible only to the admiration it ex- 
pressed, and the hopes it conveyed. She wrote 
him the most impassioned letters ; and he replied 
in a style which, without committing himself, kept 
alive all her tenderness, and riveted his influence 
?ver her. 

Meanwhile, what became of Stella? Too quick- 
righted not to perceive the difference in Swift's 
manner, pining under his neglect, and struck to 
the heart by jealousy, grief, and resentment, hei 

•" The Author on himself,'' (Swift s l'oema.) 



444 SWIFT 

health gave way. His pitiful resolve never to see 
her alone, precluded all complaint or explanation 
The Mrs. Dingley who had been chosen for her 
companion, was merely calculated to save appear 
ances ; — respectable, indeed, in point of reputation, 
but selfish, narrow-minded, and weak. Thus aban- 
doned to sullen, silent sorrow, the unhappy Stella 
fell into an alarming state ; and her destroyer waa 
at length roused to some remorse, by the daily 
spectacle of the miserable wreck he had caused. 
He commissioned his friend Dr. Ashe, " to learn 
the secret cause of that dejection of spirits which 
had so visibly preyed on her health ; and to know 
whether it was by any means in his power to 
remove it ? " She replied, " that the peculiarity 
of her circumstances, and her singular connection 
with Swift for many years, had given great occasion 
for scandal ; that she had learned to bear this 
patiently, hoping that all such reports would be 
effaced by marriage ; but she now saw, with deep 
grief, that his behaviour was totally changed and 
that a cold indifference had succeeded to the 
warmest professions of eternal affection. That the 
necessary consequences would be an indelible stain 
fixed on her character, and the loss of her good 
name, which was dearer to her than life."* 

Swift answered that in order to satisfy Misa 
Johnson's scruples, and relieve her mind, he was 
ready to go through the mere ceremony of 
marriage with her, on two conditions ; — first, thai 

* Sheridan's Life of Swift, p. 316. 



STELLA \M> v \ni :8B I 4 Jo 

Hm-v should live separately exactly as thej dk 1 
before j— secondly thai it should be kepi a pro- 
found Beorel from all the world." To these con 
•litions, however hard and humiliating, she was 
obliged to submit : and the ceremony was per- 
formed privately by Dr. Ashe, in [716. This 
nominal marriage spared her at least some of the 
torments of jealousy, by rendering a union with 
her rival impossible. 

Yet, within a year afterwards, we find this ill- 
fated rival, the yel more unhappy Vanessa, — more 
unhappy because endued by nature with quicker 
passions, and far leas fortitude and patience,— fol- 
lowing S-.vill to Ireland. She had a plausible 
pretext far this journey, being heiress to a con- 
siderable property at Celbridge, about twelve 
miles from Dublin, on which she came to reside 
with her sister ;f but her real inducement washer 

» How pertinaciously Swift adhered to these conditions, u 
proved by the fact, that after the ceremony, he i.eversawher 
alone; and that several yean after, when she was in a dangerous 
State of health, and he was writing to a friend about providing 
for her romforts, he desires "that she might not he brought to 

the Deanery-house on any account, as it was a very improper 

place for her to breathe her last in.' - — Sheridan's Lift, p. 36G. 

f'Marley Abbey, near Oelbridge, where Hiss Vanhonirijrh re- 
Sided, is built mueta in the form of a real Cloister, especially in 

Us externa] appearance. An aged man, (upwards of ninety, by 

hN own account.) showed the grounds to my correspondent. He 
w.is the son of Mrs. Yanhom rich's gardener, and used to work 
with his father in the pirden when a boy. Tie remembered the 
unfortunate Vanessa well; and his account of her corresponded 
Vith the usual description of her person, especial \ as U hef 
Otbonpo nt. He sail she went seldom abroad, and daw little 



446 SWIFT. 

unconquerable love for him. Nothing could N 
more mat apropos to Swift than her arrival in 
Dublin : placed between two women, thus devoted 
to him, his perplexity was not greater than hig 
heartless duplicity deserved : nothing could ex- 
tricate him but the simple but desperate expedient 
of disclosing the truth, and this he could not or 
would not do : regardless of the sacred ties which 
now bound him to Stella, he continued to corres- 
pond with Vanessa and to visit her; but "the 
whole course of this correspondence precludes the 
idea of a guilty intimacy."* She, whose passion 
was as pure as it was violent and exclusive, asked 
but to be his wife. She would have flung down 

company ; her constant amusement was reading, or walking in 
the garden. Yet, according to this authority, her society was 
courted hy several families in the neighbourhood, who visited her, 
notwithstanding her seldom returning that attention; and he 
added, that her manners interested every one who knew her, — 
out she avoided company, and was always melancholy save when 
Dean Swift was there, and then she seemed happy. The garden 
was to an uncommon degree crowded with laurels. The old man 
said, that when Miss Vanhomrigh expected the Dean, she always 
planted with her own hand a laurel or two against his arrival. 
He showed her favorite seat, still called Vanessa's Bower. Three 
or four trees, and some laurels, indicate the spot. They had 
formerly, according to the old man's information, been trained 
Into a close arbor. There were two seats and a rude table witb> 
in the bower, the opening of which commanded a view of th* 
Liffey, which had a romantic effect ; and there was a small cas- 
cade that murmured at some distance. In this sequestered 
spot, according to the old gardener's account, the Dean and 
Vanessa used often to sit, with books and writing materials ob 
ttie table before them." — Scott's Life of Swift. 
• Scott's Life of Swift. 



STBLLA and v \\i B8A. 441 

her fortune and herself at big feet, and bathed 
Aem wnli tears of gratitude, if he would have 
deigned to lift her to his anna. In the midst of all 
tin- mortification, anguish, and heart-wearing sus- 
penae to which hie Btern temper and inexplicable 
conduct exposed her, still Bhe clung to the hopes 
he bad awakened, and which either in cowardice, 
or compassion, or selfish egotism, he still kept alive. 
He conclude* one of his letters with the following 
sentence in French, "mais soyez assure*e, que 
jamais personne an mdhde n'a etc aimee, honoree, 
Bstimee, adoree, par votre amle, que vous :"* and 
there are other passages to the same effect, little 
agreeing with bis professions to poor Stella :— one 
or the (ither, or both, must have been grossly de- 
ceived. 

After declarations so explicit, Vanessa naturally 
wondered that he proceeded no farther ; it appears 
that he sometimes endeavored to repress her over- 
flowing tenderness, by treating her with a harsh- 
ness which drove her almost to frenzy. There is 
really nothing in the effusions of Heloise or Mdlle 
de L'Espinasse, that can exceed, in pathos and 
burning eloquence, some of her letters to hira 
during this period of thevr eonnection-t When he 

•Correspondence, (as quoted in Sheridan's Life of Swift.) 
1 1 give one specimen, not as the most eloquent that could 
be extracted, but as most illustrative of the story. 

" You bid me be easy, and you would see me is often as yoo 
»uld; you had better have said as often as you could get the 
Vitter of your inclination so much ; or, as often as you remem- 
bered there was such a person in the world. If .\ on continue u 



448 SWIFT. 

had reduced her to the most shocking and pitiable 
state, so that her life or her reason were threatened, 
he would endeavour to soothe her in language which 
again revived her hopes — 

Give the reed 

From storms a shelter, — give the drooping vine 
Something round which its tendrils may entwine, — 
Give the parch' d flower the rain-drop, — and the meed 
Of love's kind words to woman!* 

It will be said, where was her sex's delicacy 
where her woman's pride ? Alas ! — 

La Vergogna ritien debile amore, 
Ma debil freno e di potente amore. 

In this agonizing suspense she lived through 

treat me as you do, you vrill not be made uneasy by me long. 
'Tis impossible to describe what I bave suffered since I saw you 
last ; I am sure I could have borne the rack much better than 
those killing, killing words of yours. Sometimes I have resolved 
to die without seeing you more; but those resolves, to your mis- 
fortune, did not last long, for there is something in human 
nature that prompts us to seek relief in this world. I must give 
way to it, and beg you would see me, and speak kindly to me ; 
for I am sure you would not condemn any one to suffer what 
I have done, could you but know it. The reason I write to you 
is this, because I cannot tell it you, should I see you; for when I 
begin to complain, then you are angry, and there is something 
in your look so awful, that it strikes me dumb. Oh ! that you 
may but have so much regard for me left, that this com- 
plaint may touch your soul with pity ! I say as little as ever 
can. Did you but know what I thought, I am sure it would 
move you. Forgive me, and believe, I cannot help telling yov 
Ibis, and live." — Letters, Vol. xix. page 421. 
* Mrs. Hemans. 



STSLLjl \\i> 9 im 98 L 449 

eight Ion- years; till unable to endure it longer 

and being aware of the existence of Stella, she 
took ill,- decisive step of writing to her rival, 
and desired to know whet her she was, or was not, 
married to Swift ? Stella answered her immedi- 
ately in the affirmative; and then, justly indignant 
that he should have given any other woman such a 
right in him as was implied by the question, she 
enclosed Vanessa's letter to Swift; and instantly, 
with a spirit she had never before exerted, quitted 
her lodgings, withdrew to the house of Mr. Ford, 
of Wood Park, and threw herself on the friendship 
and protection of his family. 

This lamentable tragedy was now brought to a 
crisis. Swift, on receiving the letter, was seized 
with one of those insane paroxysms of rage to which 
he was subject. He mounted his horse, rode down 
to Celbridge, suddenly entered the room in which 
Vanessa was sitting. His countenance, fitted by 
nature to express the dark and fierce passions, so 
terrified her, that she could scarce ask him whether 
he would sit down ? He replied savagely, " No ! " 
and throwing down before her, her own letter to 
Stella, with a look of inexpressible scorn and ano-er, 
flung out of the room, and returned to Dublin. 

This cruel scene was her death warrant* Hith- 
erto she had venerated Swift : and in the midst of 
her Bufferings, confided in him, idobzed him as the 
first of human beings. What must he now have 
sppeared in her eyes ?— They say, " Hell has no 

•Johnson's Lift of Sw'1 
29 



450 SWIFT. 

furj like a woman scorned ; " — it is not so : the re 
coil of the heart, when forced to abhor and con- 
temn, where it has once loved, is far, — far worse 
and Yanessa, who had endured her lover's scorn, 
could not scorn Aim, and live. She was seized with 
a delirous fever, and died " in resentment and in 
despair." * She desired, in her last will, that the 
poem of Cadenus and Yanessa, which she consid- 
ered as a monument of Swift's love for her, should 
be published, with some of his letters, which would 
have explained what was left obscure, and have 
cleared her fame. The poem was published ; but the 
letters, by the interference of Swift's friends, were, 
at the time, suppressed. 

On her death, and Stella's flight, Swift absented 
himself from home for two months, nor did any one 
know whither he was gone. During that time, 
what must have been his feelings — if he felt at all ? 
what agonies of remorse, grief, shame, and horror, 
must have wrung his bosom ! he had, in effect, 
murdered the woman who loved him, as absolutely 
as if he had plunged a poniard into her heart : and 
yet it is not clear that Swift was a prey to any such 
feelings ; at least his subsequent conduct gave no 
assurance of it. On his return to Dublin, mutual 
friends interfered to reconcile him with Stella. 
About this time, she happened to meet, at a dinner* 
party, a gentleman who was a stranger to the real 
circumstances of her situation, and who began t<i 
■peak of the poem of Cadenus and Yanessa, thei 

* Johnson, Sheridan, Scott. 



BTEL] I \\i> v \ \ kssa. 451 

just publishid. IF.- observed, thai faneata must 
a.ivc been an admirable creature to bave inspired 
fee Dean to write bo finelj, "Thai does not fol- 
*>w," replied Mrs. Johnson, with bitterness; '-it is 
trell known that the Dean could write finely on a 

brwmttick." Ah! how must jealousy and irrita- 
tion, and long habits of intimacy with Swift have 
poisoned the mind and temper of this unhappy 
woman, before she could have uttered this cruel 
sarcasm !— And yet she was true to the softness of 
her sex ; for after the lapse of several months, dur- 
ing which it required all the attention of Mr. Ford 
and his family to sustain and console her, she con- 
sented to return to Dublin, and live with the Dean 
on the same terms as before. Well does old Chau- 
cer say. 

There can be no man in hnmblesse him acquite 
As woman can, ne can be half so true 
As woman be ! 

" Swift welcomed her to town," says Sheridan, 
" with that beautiful poem entitled ' Stella at 
Wood Park ; '" that is to say, he welcomed back to 
the home from which he had driven her, the 
woman whose heart he had wellnigh broken, 
the wife he had every way injured and abused,— 
with a tissue of coarse sarcasms, on the taste for 
lurtiznifieence she must have acquired in her visir 
to Wood Park, and the difficulty of descending 

From every day a lordly banquet 
To half a joint— and God be tbanket! 



152 SWIFT. 

From partridges and venison with the right fumette^ 
—to 

Small t<eer, a herring, and the Dean. 

And this was all the sentiment, all the poetry with 
which the occasion inspired him ! 

Stella naturally hoped, that when her rival was 
no more, and Swift no longer exposed to her tor- 
turing reproaches, that he would do her tardy jus- 
tice, and at length acknowledge her as his wife. 
But no ; — it would have cost him some little morti- 
fication and inconvenience ; and on such a paltry 
pretext he suffered this amiable and admirable 
woman, of whom he had said, that " her merits 
towards him were greater than ever was in any 
human being towards another ; " and " that she 
excelled in every good quality that could possibly 
accomplish a human creature," — this woman did he 
suffer to languish into the grave, broken in heart, 
and blighted in name. When Stella was on her 
death-bed, some conversation passed between them 
upon this sad subject. Only Swift's reply was aud- 
ible : he said, " Well, my dear, it shall be acknowl- 
edged, if you wish it." To which she answered with 
a sigh, " It is now too late ! " * It was too late ! — 

* Scott's Life of Swift. — Sheridan has recorded another inter- 
view between Stella and her destroyer, in which she besought 
him to acknowledge her before her death, that she might have 
the- satisfaction of dying his wife ; and he refused. 

Dated Feb. 7, 1728, 1 find a letter from Swift to Martha Blount 
•mtteu in a style of gay badinage, and her answer; and in 
neither is there the slightest allusion to his recent loss. — Koswe' 
Tope, vol. viii. p. 460. 



STELLA AM) VA \ KS8A. 4M 

What now to her \v:i> womanhood or fameV 

' S,H ' died of a lingering decline, in January, 
1728, four years after the death of Miss Vanhom- 
righ. 

'II. us perished these two innocent, warm-hearted 
and accomplished women ;— so rich in all the graces 
of their sex— so formed to love and to be loved, to 
bless, and to 1)0 blessed,— sacrifices to the demoniac 
pride of the man they had loved and trusted. But 

it will be said, "si dies n'avainit point aime, elles 
seraient moins connnes : " they have become im- 
mortal by their connection with genius; they are 
celebrated, merely through their attachment to a 

celebrated man. But, good Gk>d 1 whal an immor- 
tality! won by what martyrdom of the heart!— 
And what a celebrity ! not that with whirl, the 
poet's love, and his diviner verse, crown the deified 
objeet of his homage, but a celebrity, purchased 
with their life-blood and their tears! I quit the 
subject with a sense of relief: — yet one word 
more. 

It was after the death of these two amiable 
women, who had deserved so much from him, and 
whose enduring tenderness had flung round his 
odious life and character their only redeeming 
Charm of sentiment and interest, that the native 
crossness and rancor of this incarnate spirit of libel 
burst forth with tenfold virulence* He showed 

It me after the death of Stella, that all Swift's coarsest sat- 
ire> .rare written. He was in the act of writing the last and mosl 
lerrible of these, when he was seized with insanity: and it re 
fciaius unfinished. 



454 



now true had been his love and his respect for them^ 
Dy insulting and reviling, in terms a scavenger 
would disavow, the sex they belonged, to. Swift's 
master-passion was pride, — an unconquerable, all- 
engrossing, self-revolving pride : he was prcud of 
his vigorous intellect, proud of being the " dreaa 
and hate of half mankind," — proud of his con- 
tempt for women, — proud of his tremendous pow- 
ers of invective. It was his boast, that he never 
forgave an injury ; it was his boast, that the fero- 
cious and unsparing personal satire with which he 
avenged himself on those who offended him, had 
never been softened by the repentance, or averted 
by the concessions of the offender. Look at him 
in his last years, when the cold earth was heaped 
over those who would have cheered and soothed 
his dark and stormy spirit ; without a friend — de- 
prived of the mighty powers he had abused — alter- 
nately a drivelling idiot and a furious maniac, and 
sinking from both into a helpless, hopeless, pros- 
trate lethargy of body and mind ! — Draw, — draw 
the curtain, in reverence to the human ruin, lest 
our woman's heart be tempted to unwomanly exol> 
tation i 



rOFE AND MAKTI1A BLOUNT. 451 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

l'Ol'i: AM) MAKT1IA BLOUNT. 

Ik the soul of sensibility, which I believe Pope 
really possessed, had been inclosed in a healthful 
frame and an agreeable person, we might have 
reckoned him among our preux chevaliers, and have 
had sonnets instead of .satires. But he seems to 
have been ever divided between two contending 
feelings. He was peculiarly sensible to the charms 
of women, and his habits as a valetudinarian, ren- 
dered their society and attention not only soothing 
and delightful, but absolutely necessary to him: 
while, unhappily, there mingled with this real love 
for them, and dependence on them as a sex, the 
most irascible self-love ; and a torturing conscious- 
ness of that feebleness and deformity of person, 
which imbittered all his intercourse with them. 
He fell that, in his character of poet, he could, by 
his homage, flatter their vanity, and excite their 
admiration and their fear; but, at the same time, 
he was shivering under the apprehension that, as a 
man, they regarded him with, contempt; and that 
he could never hope to awaken in a female bo- 
som any feelings corresponding with his own. So 
r ar he was unjust to qs and to himself- his friend 



456 LOVES OF POPF 

Lord Lyttelton, and his enemy Lord Hervcy,* 
might have taught him better. 

On reviewing Pope's life, his works, and his cor 
respondence, it seems to me that these two opposite 
feelings contending in his bosom from youth to age, 
will account for the general character of his poems 
with a reference to our sex : — will explain why 
women bear so prominent a part in all his works, 
whether as objects of poetical gallantry, honest 
admiration, or poignant satire : why there is not 
among all his productions more than one poem de- 
cidedly amatory, (and that one partly suppressed 
in the ordinary editions of his works,) while women 
only have furnished him with the materials of all 
his chef-d'&uvres : his Elegy, his " Rape of the 
Lock," the " Epistle of Helo'ise," and the second 
of his Moral Essays. He may call us, and prove 
us, in his antithetical style, " a contradiction : "f but 
we may retort ; for, as far as women are concerned, 
Pope was himself one miserable antithesis. 
***** 

The " Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate 
Lady," refers to a tragedy which occurred in Pope's 
early life, and over which he has studiously drawn 

* Lord Hervey, with an exterior the most forbidding, and al- 
most ghastly, contrived to supersede Pope in the good graces of 
lady M. W. Montagu ; carried off Mary Lepell, the beautiful 
maid of honor, from a host of rivals, and made her Lady Hervey 
md won the whole heart of the poor Princess Caroline, who i» 
»aid to have died of grief for his loss. — See WalpoWs Memoin 
#/* Cttorge II. 

t " Woman s at best a contradiction still." 



r.\i oki in \ i I i. \dv. 457 

in impenetrable veil. When his friend Sir. Caryi 
wrote to bim "ii the Bubject, many years after the 
Elegy was published, Pope, in his reply, lefl this 
part of the letter unnoticed; and a Becond appli- 
cation was equally unsuccessful. His biogi tphen 
are col better informed. Johnson remarks upon 
the Blegy,that it commemorates the "amorous fury 
wing girl, who liked self-murder better than 
luspense;" and bavins riven this deadly stroke 
with his critical fang, the grim old lion of literature 
stalks on an<l tl stays no farther question." Hut is 
this merciful, or is it just? by what right does he >it 
in judgment on the unhappy dead, of whom he 
knew nothing? or how could he tell by what course 
of suffering, disease, or t_\ ranny, a gentle spirit may 
have been goaded to frenzy? It was .-aid, on the 
authority of some French author, that she was se- 
cretly attached to one of the French princes: that, 
in consequence, her uncle and guardian (" the 
mean deserter of a brother's blood,") forced her 
into a convent, where, in despair and madness, she 
put an end to her existence ; and that the lines 

Why bade ye else, ye powers! her soul aspire 
Above the vulgar flight of low desire? 
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes; 
The glorious fault of angels and cf gods, — 

refer to this ambitious passion. But then again, this 
has been contradicted. Warton's story is improb- 
able and inconsistent with the poem ; * and the as- 

• See Roscoe's Life of Pope, p. 87. Warton says her na**** wt 
W»insbury, and that she hung herself. 



458 LOVES OF TOPE. 

gertion of another author, * that she was in love 
with Pope, and as deformed as himself, is most un- 
likely. "O ever beauteous, ever friendly!" ia 
rather a strange style of apostrophizing one de- 
formed in person ; and exposed to misery, and 
driven to suicide, by a passion for himself. In 
short, it is all mystery, wonder, and conjecture. 

Other women who have been loved, celebrated, 
or satirized by Pope, are at least more notorious, if 
not so interesting. His most lasting and real at- 
tachment, was that which he entertained for The- 
resa and Martha Blount, who alternately, or with 
divided empire, reigned in his heart or fancy for 
five-and-thirty years. They were of an old Roman 
Catholic family of Oxfordshire ; and his acquaint- 
ance with them appears to have begun as early as 
1707, when he was only nineteen. Theresa, the 
handsomest and most intelligent of the two sisters, 
was a brunette, with black sparkling eyes. Martha 
was short in stature, fair, with blue eyes, and a 
softer expression. They appear to have been toler- 
ably amiable, and much attached to each other : 
au reste, in no way distinguished, but by the flatter- 
ing admiration of a celebrated man, who has im- 
mortalized both. 

The verses addressed to them, convey in general, 
either counsel or compliment, or at the most play- 
ful gallantry. His letters express something be- 
yond these. He began by admiring Theresa ; then 
Ve wavered : there were misunderstandings, and 

* Warburton. 



maki ii v BLOI m 459 

petulance, and mutual bickerings. His Buscep- 
tiiiilii y exposed him to be continually wounded ; he 

felt deeply and acutely ; lie w;i> COnseiOUl that he 

could inspire no sentimenf corresponding with that 
which throbbed at his own heart : and some pas- 
lages in the correspondence cannol be read with- 

out a painful pity. At Length, upon some mutual 
orten ■(>, his partiality for Theresa was transferred to 
Martha. In one of his Lasf letters to Theresa, he 
m> \ beautifully and feelingly, " We are too apt to 
resenl things too highly, till we come to know, by 
home great misfortune or other, how much we are 

horn to endure; and as lor me, you nerd not sus- 
pect of resentment ■ soul which can feel nothing 
hut grief." 

His attachment to Martha increased after hia 
quarrel with Lady Mary \Y . Montagu, and ended 
only with his life. 

" He was never," -ays Mr. Bowles, " indifferent 
to female society ; and though his Ljood sense pre- 
vented him, conscious of so many personal in- 
firmities, from marrying, yet he felt the want of 
that sort of reciprocal tenderness and confidence in 
a female, to whom he might freely communicate 
his thoughts, and on whom, in sickness and in- 
firmity, he could rely. All this Martha Blount be- 
came to him; by degrees, sh.9 became identified 
with his existence. She partook of his disappoint- 
ments, his vexations, and his comforts. Wherever 

^e went, his correspondence with her was never 
'emitted; and when the warmth of gallantry was 



*60 LOVES OF POPE. 

&ver, the cherished idea of kindness and regard 
remained."* 

To Martha Blount is addressed the compliment 
on her birthday — 

Oh be thou blest with all that heaven can send, — 
Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend I 

And an epistle sent to her, with the works of 
Voiture, in which he advises her against marriage. 
in this elegant and well-known passage, — 

Too much your sex are by their forms confin'd, 

Severe to all, but most to womankind; 

Custom, grown blind with age, must be your guide 

Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride. 

By nature yielding, stubborn but for fame, 

Made slaves by honor, and made fools by shame. 

Marriage may all those petty tyrants chase, 

But sets up one, a greater, in their place : 

Well might you wish for change, by those accurst, 

But the last tyrant ever proves the worst. 

Still in constraint your suffering ser. remains, 

Or bound in formal or in real chains : 

Whole years neglected, for some months adored, 

The fawning servant turns a haughty lord. 

Ah. quit not the free innocence of life 

For the dull glory of a virtuous wife ! 

Nor let false shows, nor empty titles please, — 

Aim not at joy, but rest content with ease. 

Very excellent advice, and very disinterested 
tonsidering whence it came, and to whom it wa# 
iddressed ! ! 

* Bowles's edition of Pope, vol. i. p. 69. 



MAUTii \ BLOUNT. 461 

Tlio poem generally placed after this in bn 
frorks, and entitied " Epistle to the same Lady, on 
leaving town after the Coronation," was certainly 
not addressed to Man ha, bul to Theresa It ap- 
pears from the correspondence, that Martha was 
not at the Coronation in 1715, and that Theresa 
was. The whole tenor of this poem is agreeable 
to the sprightly person and character of Theresa, 
while "Parthenia's softer blush," evidently alludes 
to Martha. From an examination of the letters 
which were written at this time, I should imagine, 
that though Pope had previously assmvd the latter 
that she had gained the conquest over her fair sister, 

yet the public appearance of Theresa at the Coro- 
nation, and her superior eharms, revived all his 
tenderness and admiration, and BUggested this gay 
tad pleasing effusion. 

In some fair evening, on your elbow laid, 

You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; 

In pensive thought recall the fancy'd scene, 

See coronations rise on every green. 

Before you pass th' imaginary sights 

Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter' d knights, 

While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes,— 

Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies. 

Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls, 

And leave you in lone woods or empty walls ! 

To Martha Blount is dedicated the " Epistle on 
Jie Characters of Women;" which concludes with 
Sua elegant and flattering address to her. 

! blest with temper, wnosr unclouded ray 



462 LOVES OF POPE. 

Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day; 
She who can love a sister's charms, or hear 
Sighs for a daughter with un wounded ear; 
She who ne'er answers till a husband cools, 
Or if she rules him, never shows she rules ; 
Charms by accepting, by submitting sways, 
Yet has her humor most when she obeys ; 
Let fops or fortune fly which way they will, 
Disdains all loss of tickets or codille ; 
Spleen, vapors, or smallpox, above them all, 
And mistress of herself though China fall. 

The allusion to her affection for her sister, is just 
and beautiful ; but the compliment to her temper 
is understood not to have been quite merited — per- 
haps, was rather administered as a corrective ; for 
Martha was weak and captious; and Pope, who 
had suffered what torments a female wit could in- 
flict, possibly found that peevishness and folly have 
also their desagremens. He complains frequently, 
in his letters to Martha, of the difficulty of pleas- 
ing her, or understanding her wishes. Methinks, 
had I been a poet, or Pope, I would rather have 
been led about in triumph by the spirited, accom- 
plished Lady Mary, than " chained to the footstool 
of two paltry girls." 

They used to employ him constantly in the most 
trifling and troublesome commissions, in which he 
had seldom even the satisfaction of contenting 
them. He was accustomed to send them little pres- 
ents almost daily, as concert tickets, ribbons, fruit, 
&c. He once sent them a basket of peaches, which, 
with an affectation of careless gallantry, were sep 



mm: I MA III.OVNT. 4(J3 

srately wrapped in p.ut of the manuscript bran* 
lation of the Diad : and he humbly requests them 
to return the wrappers, as be had do other copy. 
On another occasion he sent them fans, on which 
were inscribed his famous lines, 

" Come, gentle nir," tlf Eolian shepherd raid, &c. 

Martha Blount was not so kind or so attentive to 
Pope iu his last illness as Bhe ought to have been. 
His love for her seemed blended with his (Vail ex 
istence; and when he was scarcely sensible to an* 

thing else in the world, he was still conscious of 
tli.- charm of her presence. " When she came in- 
to the room," says Spenee, "it was enough to give 
a new turn to his spirits, and a temporary strength 
to him." 

She survived him eighteen years, and died un- 
married at, her house in Berkeley Square, in 1762. 
She is described, about that time, as a little, fair, 
prim old woman, very lively, and inclined to gossip. 
Her undefined connection with Pope, though it af- 
forded matter for mirth and wonder, never affected 
her reputation while living; and has rendered her 
name as immortal as our language and our litera- 
ture. One cannot help wishing that she had been 
More interesting, and more worthy of her fame. 



464 LOVES OF POPE. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

POPE AND LADY M. W. MONTAGU. 

In the same year with Martha Blount, and about 
the same age, died Lady Mary W. Montagu. Every 
body knows that she was one of Pope's early loves. 
She had, for several years, suspended his attach- 
ment to his first favorites, the Blounts ; and she 
really deserved the preference. But the issue of 
this romantic attachment was the most bitter, the 
most irreconcilable enmity. The cause did not 
proceed so much from any one particular offence 
on either side, but rather from a multitude of tri- 
lling causes, arising naturally out of the characters 
of both. 

When they first met, Pope was about six-and- 
twenty; and from the recent publication of the 
" Rape of the Lock," and " The Temple of Fame," 
&c, had reached the pinnacle of fashion and reputa- 
tion. Lady Mary was in her twenty-third year, 
lately married to a man she loved, and had just 
burst upon the world in all the blaze of her wit 
and beauty. Her masculine acquirements and 
po Wei's of mind — her strong good sense — her ex- 
tensive views — her frankness, decision, and gener- 
osity — her vivacity, and her bright eyes, must al 
together have rendered her one of the most fasci 
Dating, as she really was one of the most extra 
ordinary, women that ever lived. 



LAD? m. w. IfONTAOU. 465 

There stands, in a conspicuous part of this great 
pity, a certain monument, erected, it is said, at the 
coal of the ladiet of Britain; bu1 in a spirit and 
taste which, I trust, are do! those of my country- 
women .it large. I- this our patriotism? We may 
applaud the brave, who go forth to battle to 
defend as, and preserve inviolate the Banctityof 
oar hearths and homes; bul does it become us to 

lend our voice to exult in victory, always bought 

at the expense of suffering, and aggravate the din 

and the clamor of war— we, who ought to be tho 
peace-makers of the world, and plead for man 
against his own fierce pa-ions ? A huge brazen 
image stands up, an impudent (false) witness of 
our martial enthusiasm; but who amongst us has 
thought of raising a public statue to Lady Wortlev 
Montagu ! to her who lias almost banished fixBT 
the world that peal which once extinguished 
families and desolated provinces ? To her tru» 
patriotic spirit, — to her magnanimity, her generous 
perseverance, in surmounting all obstacles raised 
by the outcry of ignorance, and the obstinacy of 
prejudice, we owe the introduction of inoculation; 
— she ought to stand in marble beside Howard the 
fifood * 

* In Litchfield Cathedral (fends the Only memorial ever hum- I, 

by public or private gratitude, to Lady Mary; it is a cenotaph, 

■tth Beauty weeping the loss of her preserver, ami nn inscrip- 
tion, of which the following wopls form the conclusion: u To 
perpetuate the memory of such benevolence, and to express her 
gratitude for the benefit she herself receffed from th.s alleviating 
rt, ibis monument Eerrietta Inge relict of The© 

20 



466 LOVES OF POPE 

I should imagine that a strong impression must 
have been made on Lady Mary's mind by an inci- 
dent which occurred just at the time she left Eng- 
land for Constantinople. Lord Petre, — he who is 
consecrated to fame in the Rape of the Lock, as 
the ravisher of Arabella Fermour's hair, — died of 
the smallpox at the age of three-and-twenty, just 
after his marriage with a young and beautiful heir- 
ess ; his death caused a general sympathy, and 
added to the dread and horror which was inspired 
by this terrible disease : eighteen persons of his 
family had died of it within twenty-seven years. 
In those days it was not even allowable to mention, 
or allude to it in company. 

Mr. Wortley was appointed to the Turkish em- 
bassy in 1716, and his wife accompanied him. 
The letters which passed between her and Pope, 
during her absence, are well known. In point of 
style and liveliness, the superiority is on the lady's 
side ; but t'he tone of feeling in Pope is better, more 
earnest ; his language is not always within the 
bounds of that sprightly gallantry with which a man 
naturally addresses a young, beautiful, and virtuous 
woman, who had condescended to allow his hom- 
age.* 

dore William Inge, and daughter of Sir John Wrottesley, Bart. 
In 1789." One would like to have known the woman who raise! 
this monument. 

* " You shall see (said Lady Mary referring to these letters 
*hat a goddess he made of me in some of them, though he make* 
rach a devil of me in his writings afterwards, without any . 
ftiat I know of." — Spence. 



I.ADY M. \V. M<)\ I \<,l\ H57 

fn * D6 of his letters, written immediately after 
her departure, he asks her how he had looked? 
how be had behaved at the tail moment ? whether 
he had betrayed any deeper feeling than propriety 
mighl warrant ? " For if," he Bays, " my parting 
looked like thai of a common acquaintance, I am 
the greatest of all hypocrites thai ever decency 
ma If." And in a suhsequenl Letter he sa\ 
feelingly and significantly, "May that person (her 
husband) for whom you have left the world, be so 
jusl as to prefer you to all the world. I believe 

his good sense leads him to do so now, as gratitude 
will hereafter. May you continue to think him 
Worthy of whatever you have done! may you ever 
look upon him with the eyes of a first lover, nay, 
if possible, with all the unreasonable happy fond- 
ness of an unexperienced one, surrounded with all 
the enchantments and ideas of romance and poe- 
try I I wish this from my heart; and while I exam- 
ine what passes there in regard to you, I cannot but 
glory in my own heart, that it is capable of so much 
generosity." 

This was sufficiently clear. I need scarcely re- 
mark, en passant, that Pope's generosity and wishes 
were all en pure perte ; his spitefulness must have 
been gratified by the sequel of Lady Mary's do- 
mestic bliss ; her marriage ended in disgust aud 
aversion ; which, on her separation from Mr. 
Wortley, subsided into a good-humored indiffer- 
ence.* 
•I remember eeaiug I thiuk, iu ouc of D'Isre-'i's wor^s, a 



£68 LOVES OF POPE. 

Afl er a union of twenty-seven years, she parted 
from him and went to reside abroad. There were 
errors on both sides ; but I am obliged to admit 
that Lady Mary, with all her fine qualities, had two 
faults,- -intolerable and unpardonable faults in the 
eyes of a husband or a lover. She wanted softness 
of mind, and refinement of feeling, in the first 
place ; and she wanted — how shall I express it ? — 
she wanted neatness and personal delicacy ; and 
was in short, that odious thing, a female sloven, as 
well as that dangerous thing, a female wit. 

In those days the style of dress was the most 
hideous imaginable. The women wore a large 
quantity of artificial hair, in emulation of the tre- 
mendous periwigs of the men ; and Pope, in one 
of his letters to Lady Mary, mentions her " full- 
bottomed wig," which, he says, " I did but assert to 
be a bob" and was answered, " Love is blind ! " 
On her return from Tarkey, she sometimes allowed 
her own fine dark hair to flow loose, and was fond 
of dressing in her Turkish costume. In this she 
was imitated by several beautiful women of the day, 
and particularly by her lovely contemporary, Lady 
Fanny Shirley, (Chesterfield's " Fanny, blooming 
fair : " he seems to have admired her as much as 
he could possibly admire any thing, next to himself 
and the Graces.) In her picture at Clarendon 
Park, she too appears in the habit of Fatima. 
Apropos, to the loves of the poets, Lady Fanny 

fragment of some lines which Lady Mary wrote on her husband 
ind which expressed the utmost bitterness of female scorn. 



LAD I M. W. MOM I AQFJ. 461 

ee to be mentioned at the theme of ail the 
rhymesters, and "the joy, the wish, the vronder, the 
despair," of all the beatu of ber day.* 

But it is time bo return to Pope. The epistle of 

Heloise to Abelard was published during Lady 

absence, and sent to her: and it is dear 

from a passage in one <>t' liis letters, thai In' wished 

ber to consider the last lines, — from 

and sni-.', tffate some future bard shall join, 
down to 

He best can paint them, who can feel them most, 

as applicable to himself and to his feelings towards 
her. 

And yet, whatever might have been his devotion 
to Lady Mary before >he went abroad, it was in- 
creased tenfold after her memorable travels. At 
present, who*) ladies of fashion make excursions of 
pleasure to the pyramids of Egypt and the ruins 
of Babylon, a journey to Constantinople is little 
more than a trip to Rome or Vienna; but in the 
last age it was a prodigious and marvellous under- 
taking ; and Lady Mary, on her return, was gazed 
upon as an object of wonder and curiosity, and 

• Bee, in Tope's Miscellanies, the sprightly stanzas, beginning 

Yes, I beheld th' Athenian Queen." They tire addressed to 
ady Penny, who hail presented the poet with \ Blandish, and 
two pens, one of steel and one of gold. She was the fourth 
laughter of Karl Ferrers after numbering more adorers in her 
train than any beauty of her time, Bfce died unmarried, in 1778 
-CoUtus s Peenge } by B,. 



i70 LOVES OF POPE. 

jought as the most entertaining person in the world 
her sprightliness and her beauty, her oriental sto- 
ries and her Turkish costume, were the rage of the 
day. With Pope, she was on the most friendly 
terms : — by his interference and negotiation, a 
house was procured for her and Mr. Wortley, at 
Twickenham, so that their intercourse was almost 
constant. When he finished his translation of the 
Iliad, in 1720, Gay wrote him a complimentary 
poem, in which he enumerates the host of friends 
who welcomed the poet home from Greece ; and 
among them, Lady Mary stands conspicuous, 

What lady's that to whom he gently bends? 

Who knows notner! Ah, those are Wortley' s eyes; 
How art thou honored, numbered with her friends,— 

For she distinguishes the good and wise ! 

To this period we may also refer the composition 
of the Stanzas to Lady Mary, which begin, " In 
beauty and wit."* The measure is trivial and dis- 
agreeable, but the compliments are very sprightly 
and pointed. 

She sat to Kneller for him in her Turkish dress 
and we have the following note from him on the 
subject, which shows how much he felt the cond» 
icensfon. 

* In beauty and wit, 
No mortal as yet, 

To question your empire has dared ; 
But men of discerning 
Have thought that, in learning, 

To yield to a lady was hard. 



LADT M W. Mom \<;r. 471 

u The picture dwells imtiII \ ;it my heart, ami I have 

bade a perfecl passion of preferring your present 
bee to your part. I know and thoroughly es tee m 
yourself of tlii- year. I know no more of Lady 

Mary Pierre point than to admire at what I lia\e 

heard of her, or he pleased with some fragments of 

hers, as I am with Sappho's. But now — -I cannot 
say what I would say of you now. Only still give 
me cause to say you are good to me, and allow me 
as much of your person as Sir Godfrey can help 
me to. Upon conferring with him yesterday, [find 
he thinks it absolutely necessary to draw your face 
first, which, he says, can never he set right on your 
figure, it' the drapery and posture be finished be- 
fore. To give you as little trouble as possible, he 
purposes to draw your face with crayons, and finish 
it up at your own house of a morning ; from whence 
he will transfer it to canvas, so that you need not 
go to sit at his house. This, I must observe, is a 
manner they seldom draw any but crowned heads, 
and I observe it with a secret pride and pleasure. 
Be so kind as to tell me if you care, he should do 
this to-morrow at twelve. Though, if I am but 
assured from you of the thing, let the manner and 
time be what you best like ; let every decorum you 
please be observed. I should be very unworthy of 
any favor from your hands, if I desired any at the 
expense of your quiet or convenient}- in any de- 
gree." 

He was charmed with the picture, and composed 
in extemporary compliment, beginning 



472 LOVES OF POPE. 

The playful smiles around the dimpled mouth, 
That happy air of majesty and truth, &c- 

which considering that they are Pope's, are 
Btrangely defective in rhyme, in sense, and ia 
grammar. In a far different strain are the beauti- 
ful lines addressed to Gay during Lady Mary's ab- 
sence from Twickenham, and which he afterwards 
endeavored to suppress. They are curious on this 
account, as well as for being the solitary example 
of amatory verse contained in his works. 

Ah friend ! 'tis true, — this truth you lovers know, 
In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow ; 
In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes, 
Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens; 
Joy lives not here, to happier seats it flies, 
And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes. 

What are the gay parterre, the checkered shade, 
The morning bower, the evening colonnade, 
But soft recesses of uneasy minds, 
To sigh unheard in to the passing winds ? 
So the struck deer, in some sequester'd part, 
Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart ; 
There, stretch' d unseen in coverts hid from day, 
Bleeds drop by drop, and pants his life away. 

These sweet and musical lines, which fall on the 
ear with such a lulling harmony, are dashed with 
discord when we remember that the same woman 
who inspired them, was afterwards malignantly and 
coarsely designated as the Sappho of his satires. 
The generous heart never coolly degraded and m 
rolted what it has once loved ; but Pope cc uld noi 



i \dy M. w. mom \.;r. 473 

be magnanimo us, it was not in hii ipitefii] nature 
to forgive, B • jays of himself, 

rVho'er offends, a1 some onluoky time 
Slides into verse, end bitohes in a rhyme.* 

One of Pope's biographers f seems to insinuate, 
that he had been led on, by the lady's coquetry, to 
presume too far, and in consequence received a 
repulse which he never forgave. This is not prob- 
able : Pope was not likely to be so desperate or 
dangerous an admirer; nor was Lady Mary, who 

had written with her diamond ring on ;i window, 

Let this great maxim be my virtue's guide: 
In part, she is to blame that has been tried, — 
He comes too near, that comes to be denied!— 

at all likely to expose herself to such ridiculous 
audacity. The truth is, I rather imagine, that there 
was a great deal of vanity on both sides ; that tin; lady 
was amused and flattered, and the poet bewitched 
and in earnest : that she gave the first offence by 
some pointed sarcasm or personal ridicule, in which 
she was an adept, and that Pope, gradually awak- 
ened from his dream of adoration, was stung to trio 

• " I have often wondered," says the gentle-spirited Cowper, 
11 that the same poet who wrote the Dunciad should have written 
Uiese lines, — 

That mercy I to others show, 
That mercy show to me ! 
Alas : for Pope, if the mercy he showed to others was the 
Measure of the mercy he received ! »— Coiapers Letters, vol UJ 
^196. 
1 Mr. Bowles 



174 LOVES OF POPE. 

quick by her laughing scorn, and mortified and ur> 
fcated by the consciousness of his wasted attachment, 
He makes this confession with extreme bitterness, 

Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit, 
Sappho can tell you how this man was bit. 

Prologue io the Satire*. 

The lines as they stand in a first edition are even 
more pointed and significant, and have much more 
asperity. 

Once, and but once, his heedless youth was bit, 
And liked that dangerous thing, a female wit. 
Safe as he thought, though all the prudent chid, 
He wrote no libels, but my lady did ; 
Great odds in amorous or poetic game, 
Where woman's is the sin, and man's the shame! 

The result was a deadly and interminable feud. 
Lady Mary might possibly have inflicted the first 
private offence, but Pope gave the first public af- 
front. A man who, under such circumstances, 
^ould grossly satirize a female, would, in a less civ- 
ilized state of society, have revenged himself with 
a blow. The brutality and cowardice were the same. 

The war of words did not, however, proceed at 
once to such extremity ; the first indication of 
Pope's revolt from his sworn allegiance, and a con- 
scious hint of the secret cause, may be found in 
Some lines addressed to a lady poetess,* to whom 
he pays a compliment at Lady Mary's expense. 

* Erinna : hrr real name is not known. But she was a friena 
of Lady Suffolk, who wrote bad verses, and submitted them t$ 
Pope for correction. 



LADY M. \v. mon r kOU. 47d 

Though sprightly Sappho force our love and praise, 
A softer wonder my pleased soul surveys, — 

The mild l'.rinna blushing in licr : 

S i i i if the Bnn'e broad beam yet itrikei the sight, 

All mild appean the moon's more sober light. 

Serene Is virgin majesty she shii 

And unobserved, the glaring orb declines. 

Soon after appeared that ribald and rullianlike 
attack on her in the satires. She sent Lord Peter- 
borough to remonstrate with Pope, to whom he de- 
nied the intended application ; and his disavowal 
is a proved falsehood. Lady Mary, exasperated, 
forgot lie r good sense and her feminine dignity, and 

made common cause with Lord Hervey (the Lord 
Fanny and the Sporus of the Satires). They con- 
eoeted an attack in verse, addressed to the imita- 
tor of Horace ; but nothing could be more unequal 
than such a warfare. Pope, in return, grasped the 
blasting and volleyed lightnings of his wit, and 
would have annihilated both his adversaries, if 
more than half a grain of truth had been on his 
side. But posterity has been just : in his anger, 
he overcharged his weapon, it recoiled, and the 
engineer has been " hoisted by his own petard." 

Lady Mary's personal negligence afforded 
grounds foi Pope's coarse and severe allusions to 
the " color of her linen," &C. His asperity, how- 
ever, did not reform her in this respect : it was a 
fault which increased with ag3 and foreign habits, 
Horace Walpole, who met her at Florence twenty 
*ears afterwards, draws a hateful and disgusting 



476 LOVES OF POPE. 

picture of her, as " old, dirty, tawdry, painted," 
and flirting and gambling with all the young men 
in the place. But Walpole is terribly satirical ; he 
had a personal dislike to Lady Mary Wortley, 
whom he coarsely designates as Moll Worthless, — 
and his description is certainly overcharged. How 
differently the same characters will strike different 
people ! Spence, who also met Lady Mary abroad, 
about that time, thus writes to his mother : " I al- 
ways desired to be acquainted with Lady Mary, 
and could never bring it about, though we were so 
often together in London. Soon after we came to 
this place, her ladyship came here, and in five days 
I was well acquainted with her. She is one of tho 
most shining characters in the world, — but shines 
like a comet : she is all irregularity, and always 
wandering: the most wise, most imprudent, love- 
liest, most disagreeable, best-natured, cruellest 
woman in the world ! " Walpole could see nothing 
but her dirt and her paint. Those who recollect 
his coarse description, and do not remember her 
letters to her daughter, written from Italy about 
the same time, would do well to refer to them as a 
corrective : it is always so easy to be satirical and 
ill-natured, and sometimes so difficult to be just and 
merciful ! 

The cold scornful levity with which she treated 
certain topics, is mingled with touches of tender- 
ness and profound thought, which show her to have 
been a disappointed, not a heartless woman. Thr 
extreme care with which she cultivated pleasurable 



LADT If. w. MONTAGU il* 

feelings and ideas, and shrank from all disaf 
sole impressions; ber determination never to view 
her own face in a glass, after the approach of age, 
or to pronounce the name of her mad, profligate 
Bon, may be referred to a cause very different from 
either selfishness or vanity : but I thins the princi- 
ple was mistaken. While she was amusing herself 
with her Bilk-worms and orangerie at Como, her 
husband Wbrtley, with whom she kept up a con- 
stanl correspondence, was boarding money and 
drinking tokay to keep himself alive. He died, 
however, in 1761 ; and thai he was connected with 
the motives, whatever those were, which induced 
Lady Mary to reside abroad is proved by the met, 

that the moment she heard of his death she prepared 

to return to England, and she readied London in 
January. 1762. -Lady Mary is arrived," says 
Walpole, writing to George Montagu. "I have 
Been her. I think her avarice, her dirt, and her 
vivacity, are all increased. Her dress, like her 
language, is a galimatias of several countries. She 
needs no cap, no handkerchief, no gown, no petti- 
coat, no shoes; an old black-laced hood represents 
the first; the fur of a horseman's coat, which re- 
places the third, serves for the second ; a dimity 
petticoat is deputy, and officiates for the fourth, 
and slippers act the part of the last." About six 
month.* alter her arrival she died in the arms of 
her daughter, the Countess of Bute, of a cruel and 
shocking disease, the agonies of which she had 
Borne with heroism rather than resignation. The 



478 POETICAL OLD BACHELORS. 

present Marquess of Bute, and the present Lord 
Wharncliffe, are the great-grandsons of this distill 
gruished woman : the latter is the representative of 
• he Wortley family. 



CHAPTER XXXVLL 

POETICAL OLD BACHELORS. 

There is a certain class of poets, not a very nu- 
merous one, whom I would call poetical old bache- 
lors. They are such as enjoy a certain degree of 
fame and popularity themselves, without sharing 
their celebrity with any fair piece of excellence *, 
but walk each on his solitary path to glory, wear- 
ing their lonely honors with more dignity than 
grace : for instance, Corneille, Racine, Boileau, the 
classical names of French poetry, were all poetical 
old bachelors. Racine — le tendre Racine — as he is 
called par excellence, is said never to have been in 
love in his life ; nor has he left us a single verse in 
which any of his personal feelings can be traced, 
He was, however, the kind and faithful husband of 
a cold, bigoted woman, who was persuaded, and at 
length persuaded him, that he would be grille in 
the other world, for writing heathen tragedies in 
this : and made it her boast that she had never rea* 



OB u OOXJJNS. 479 

ft angle hne <»t her husband's works 1 Peace be 

with her I 

And 0, let her by whom the muse wai scorn'd, 
■ nor dead, be of the muse adorn'd ! 

Our own Gray was in every 161186, real and po- 
etical, a cold fastidious old bachelor, who buried 

himself in the reC6986fl of' his college ; at once shy 
and proud, sensitive and selfish. I cannot, on look- 
ing through his memoirs, letters, and poems, dis- 
cover the slightest trace of passion, or one proof or 
even indication that he was ever under the influ- 
ence of woman. lie loved his mother, and was 
dutiful to two tiresome old aunts, who thought poe- 
try one of the. seven deadly sins — el voila tout. lie 
spent his lite in amassing an inconceivable quantity 
of knowledge, which lay as buried and useless as a 
miser's treasure; but with this difference, that 
when the miser dies, his wealth flows forth into its 
natural channels, and enriches others; Gray's 
learning was entombed with him ; his genius sur- 
vives in his elegy and his odes;— what became of 
his heart I know not He is generally supposed to 
have possessed one, though none can guess what he 
did with it :— he might well moralize on his bache- 
lorship, and call himself " a solitary fly," 

The joys no glittering female meets, 
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, 
No paintea plumage to display ! 

Collies was never a lover, and never married 



480 POETICAL OLD BACHELORS. 

His odes, with all their exquisite fancy and splendid 
imagery, have not much interest in their subjects, 
and no pathos derived from feeling or passion. He 
is reported to have been once in love ; and as the 
lady was a day older than himself, he used to say 
jestingly, that " he came into the world a day after 
the fair." He was not deeply smitten ; and though 
he led in his early years a dissipated life, his heart 
never seems to have been really touched. He 
wrote an Ode on the Passions, in which, after 
dwelling on Hope, Fear, Anger, Despair, Pity, and 
describing them with many picturesque circum- 
stances, he dismisses Love with a couple of lines, 
as dancing to the sound of the sprightly viol, and 
forming with joy the light fantastic round. Such 
was Collins's idea of love ! 

To these we may add Goldsmith. Of his lovea 
we know nothing ; they were probably the reverse 
of poetical, and may have had some influence on 
his purse and respectability, but none on his lite- 
rary character and productions. He also died un 
married. 

Shenstone, if he was not a poetical old bache- 
lor, was little better than a poetical dangler. H ■ 
was not formed to captivate : his person was clumsy, 
his manners disagreeable, and his temper feeble 
and vacillating. The Delia who is introduced 
into his elegies, and the Phillis of his pastoral bal- 
lad, was Charlotte Graves, sister to the Graves wh<? 
wrote the Spiritual Quixotte There was nothing 
Warm or earnest in his admiration, and all his gal 



rHOMSOXt 481 

lant i\ is as rapid as his character. Be never gav# 

the l;t< I \ who \s.i- Supposed, and supposed herself, 

to be the objecl of hie serious pursuit, an opportu- 
nity of accepting or rejecting him; and his conduct 
lias been blamed as ambiguous and unmanly. His 
querulous declamations against women in general, 
had neither cause nor excuse ; and his complaints 
of infidelity and coldness are equally without foun- 
dation. He died unmarried. 

When we look at a picture of Thomson, we 
wonder how a man with that heavy, pampered 
countenance, and awkward mien, could ever have 
written " The Seasons," or have been in love. I 
think it is Barry Cornwall, who says, strikingly, 
that Thomson's figure " was a personification of 
the Castle of Indolence, without its romance." 
Yet Thomson, though he has not given any popu- 
larity or interest to the name of a woman, is said 
to have been twice in love, after his own lack-a- 
daisical fashion. He was fust attached to Miss 
Stanley, wdio died young, and upon whom he 
wrote the little elegy, — 

Tell me, thou soul of her I love ! &c. 

He alludes to her also in Summer, in the passage 
beginning, — 

And art thou, Stanley, of the sacred band? &c. 

His second love was long, quiet, and constant; 
but whether the lady's coldness, or want of fortune, 
prevented a union, is not clear: probaMy the lat- 
ter. The object of this attachment was a Mis« 



482 POETICAL OLD BACHELORS. 

5Toung, who resided at Kichmond; and his atten- 
tions to her were continued through a long series 
of years, and even till within a short time before 
his death, in his forty-eighth year. She was his 
Amanda ; and if she at all answered the description 
of her in his Spring, she must have been a lovely 
and amiable woman. 

And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my song ! 
Form'd by the Graces, loveliness itself! 
Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet, 
Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul, 
Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd 
Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart : 
0, come ! and while the rosy-footed May 
Steals blushing on, together let us tread 
The morning dews, and gather in their prime 
Fresh-blooming flowers, to grace thy braided hair. 

And if his attachment to her suggested that beau- 
tiful description of domestic happiness with which 
his Spring concludes, — 

But happy they, the happiest of their kind, 
Whom gentler stars unite, &c. 

who would not grieve at the destiny which denied 
to Thomson pleasures he could so eloquently de- 
scribe, and so feelingly appreciate ? 

Truth, however, obliges me to add one little trait 
A lady who did not know Thomson personally, bit* 
was enchanted with his " Seasons," said she could 
gather from his works three parts of his character 
.—that he was an amiable lover, an excellent swim- 



HAMMOND. 488 

mer, and extremely abstemious. Savage, who 
knew the poet, could not help laughing at this pic- 
ture of a man who scarcely knew what love was; 
who shrunk from cold water like a cat; and whose 
habits were those of a good-natured bon vivant, 
who indulged himself in every possible luxury, 
which could he attained without trouble ! He also 
died unmarried. 

Hammond, the favorite of our sentimental great- 
grandmothers, whose " Love Elegies " lay on the 
toilettes of the Harriet Bryons and Sophia West- 
erns of the last century, was an amiable youth, 
" very melancholy and gentlemanlike," who being 
appointed equerry to Prince Frederic, cast his eyes 
on Miss Dashwood, bedchamber woman to the 
Princess, and she became his Delia. The lady was 
deaf to his pastoral strains ; and though it has been 
said that she rejected him on account of the small- 
ness of his fortune, I do not see the necessity of 
believing this assertion, or of sympathizing in the 
dull invectives and monotonous lamentations of the 
slighted lover. Miss Dashwood never married, and 
was, I believe, one of the maids of honor to the 
late Queen. 

Thus the six poets, who, in the history of our 
literature, fill up the period which intervened be- 
tween the death of Pope and the first publication! 
tf Burns and Cowper — all died old bachelors ' 



484 FRENCH POETS. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

FRENCH POETS. 

VOLTAIRE AND MADAME DU CHATELET. 

If we take a rapid view of French literature, 
from the reign of Louis the Fourteenth, down to 
the Revolution, we are dazzled by the record of 
brilliant and celebrated women, who protected or 
cultivated letters, and obtained the homage of men 
of talent. There was Ninon ; and there was Ma- 
dame de Rambouillet ; the one galante, the other 
pre'cieuse. One had h^r St. Evremond ; the other 
her Voiture. Madame ae Sabliere protected La 
Fontaine ; Madame de Montespan protected Mo- 
liere ; Madame de Maintenon protected Racine. It 
was all patronage and protection on one side, and 
dependence and servility on the other. Then we 
have the intrigante Madame de Tencin ; * the good- 
natured, but rather borne'e Madame de Geoffrin 
the Duchesse de Maine, who held a little court of 
hel esprits and small poets at Sceaux, and is bes* 
known as the patroness of Mademoiselle de Lau- 

* Madame de Tencin used to call the men of letters she as 
Bemhled at her house " mes betes," and her society went by the 
came of Madame de Tencin's menagerie. Her advice to Map 
montel, when a young man, was excellent. See his Memoirs 
W>1. I 



MADAME DC OHATKLKT. 481 

My. Madame d*Epinay, ,llr m*k of Grimm, and 
the patroness of Rousseau; the clever, selfish, 
witty , c\cr ennuyss, neve \| ,d ,,,,,. ,| u 

Deffand; the ardent, talented Mademoiselle de 
'Espinasse, who would certainly have been a 
poetess, if she had qoI beeo a philosopheress am. a 
Frenchwoman: Madame Neckar, the pataonr«of 
Marmontel and Thomas : — e tutte quemte. If we 
look over the lighl French literature of those times, 
we find an inconceivable heap of vers gakrv, and 
jolis couplets, licentious songs, pretty, well-turned 
eompliments, and most graceful badinage; but we 
can discover the names of only two distinguished 
women, who have the slightest pretensions to a 
poetical celebrity, deriv-d from the genius, the at- 
tachment, and the fame of their lovers. These 
were Madame dn Chfttelet, Voltaire's » Immortelle 
Emilio:" and Madame d'Houdetot, the Doris of 
Saint Lambert. 

Gabrielle-Emilie Ie Tonnelier de Br&euil, was 
the daughter of the Baron de Brdteuil, and born 
in 1 706. At an early age she was taken from her 
convent, and married to the Marquis du Chatelet; 
and her lite wins thenceforward to have been di- 
vided between two passions, or rather two pursuits 
rarely combined.— love, and geometry. Her tutor 
in both is said to have been the famous mathe- 
matician Clairaut, and between them they rendered 
geometry so much the fashion at one* time, that 
all the women, who were distinguished either (or 
rank or beauty, thought it indispensable to have a 



*86 FRENCH POETS. 

geometrician in their train. The " Poetes de 
Societe " hid for awhile their diminished heads, 
or were obliged to study geometry pour se mettre h 
la mode* Her friendship with Voltaire began to 
take a serious aspect, when she was about eight- 
and-twenty, and he was about forty ; he is said to 
have succeeded that roue par excellence, the Due 
de Richelieu, in her favor. 

This woman might have dealt in mathematics, — 
might have inked her fingers with writing treatises 
on the Newtonian philosophy ; she might have sat 
up till five in the morning, solving problems and 
calculating eclipses ; — and yet have possessed ami- 
able, elevated, generous, and attractive qualities, 
which would have thrown a poetical interest round 
her character ; moreover, considering the horribly 
corrupt state of French society at that time, she 
might have been pardoned " une vertu de moms," 
if her power over a great genius had been exer- 
cised to some good purpose ; — to restrain his licen- 
tiousness, to soften his pungent and merciless satire, 
and prevent the frequent prostitution of his admir- 
able and versatile talents. But a female skeptic, 
profligate from temperament and principle ; a ter- 
magant, " qui voulait furieusement tout ce qu'elle 
90ulait ; " a woman with all the suffisance of a 
pedant, and all the exigence, caprices, and frivolity 
of a fine lady, — grands dieux I what a heroine foi 
poetry 1 

* Correspondence de Grimm, vol. ii. 421. 



m \i> w\v. DTJ en \ i i ii.i. 487 

To a taste tor NVwton and the stars, and geem 
Mrv Bud algebra, Madame da Chfttelel added some 
other tastes not quite sosabHme \A taste tor 

nijoux — and pretty gimcracks — and old china — and 

watrht'S— and lings —and diamond- and -nutf- 
00X60— and — puppet-shows!* and. now and then, 
une petite affaire du coeur, by way of variety. 

'lout lui plait, tout convient a. son vast© genie: 
Les livres, les bijoux, les compas, les pompons, 
Les vers, lea diamante, lobiribi,t l'optique, 
L'ali^bro, les soupers, le latiu, les jupons, 
L'op6ra, les proces, le bal, et la physique! 

This " Minerve de la France, la respectable 
Emilie," did not resemble Minerva in all her at- 
tributes ; nor was she satisfied with a succession of 
lovers. The whole history of her liaison with 
Voltaire, is enough to put en de'route all poetry, 
and all sentiment. With her imperious temper 
and bitter tongue, and his extreme irritability, no 
wonder they should have cles scenes terribles.% 
Marmontel says they were often a couteaux tire's ; 
and this, not metaphorically but literally. On one 

* Je ris plus que personne aux marionettes; et j'avoue qu* 
»ne boite, une porcelaino, un meuble nouveau, sont pour mol 
Due yraie .ouissance. — CEuvres de Madame du Ch&telet — Traiti 
ie Bonheut 

t The then fashionable game at cards. 

tVoltiiire once Bald of hor, " (Test une femme terrible, qui n'a 
point de flexibility dans le coeur, quoiqu'elle l'ait bon " ThU 
hardness of temper, this voiontc tyrannique, this cold determi 
aatiou never to yield a point, were worse than a'l her violeuoe. 



488 FRENCH POETS. 

occasion, Voltaire happened to criticize some 
couplets she had written for Madame de Luxem- 
bourg. " L' Amante de Newton " * could calculate 
eclipses, but she could not make verses ; and, prob- 
ably, for that reason, she was most particularly 
jealous of all censure, while she criticized Voltaire 
without manners or mercy; and he endured it, 
sometimes with marvellous patience. 

A dispute was now the consequence ; both be- 
came furious ; and at length Voltaire snatched up 
a knife, and brandishing it exclaimed, " ne me re- 
garde done pas avec tes yeux hagards et louches ! " 
After such a scene as this, one would imagine that 
iove must have spread his light wings and fled for- 
ever. Could Emilie ever have forgiven those 
words, or Voltaire have forgotten the look that pro- 
voked them? 

But the mobilite of his mind was one of the most 
extraordinary parts of his character, and he was 
not more irascible than he was easily appeased. 
Madame du Chatelet maintained her power over 
him for twenty years ; during five of which they 
resided in her chateau at Cirey, under the coun 
tenance of her husband ; he was a good sort of man, 
but seams to have been considered by these two 
geniuses and their guests as a complete nonentity 
He was " Le bon-homme, le vilain petit Zricheteau, 
whom it was a task to speak to, and a penance to 
amuse. Every day, after coffee, Monsieur rose from 
his table with all the docility imaginable, leaving Vot 
* The title which Voltaire gave her. 



U \i) wir in- en \ i i.i kt. <M!i 

laiiv and Madame to recite verses, translate NTew- 
ton, philosophize, dispute, and to do the donors of 
Cirey to the briilianf Bociety who had assembled 
under Ins roof. 

While the boudoir, the laboratory, and the aleep- 
ingrooni of the lady, and the study and gallery 
appropriated to Voltaire, were furnished with Ori- 
ent d luxury and splendor, and shone with gilding, 
drapery, pictures, and baubles, the lord of the 

mansion and the gUBSte were destined to starve in 

half-furnished apartments, from which the wind 

and the rain were seareelv excluded.* 

In 1748, Voltaire and .Madame du Chatelet paid 
a visit t«» the Court of Stanislaus, the ex-king of 
Poland, at Luneville, and took M. du Chatelet in 
their train. There Madame du Chatelet wa* 
seized with a passion far Saint Lambert, the author 
of the " Saisons," who was at least ten or twelve 
years younger then herself, and then a jeune mill, 
taire, only admired for his fine figure and pretty 
vers de societe. Voltaire, it is said, was extremely 
jealous; but his jealousy did not prevent him from 
addressing some very elegant verses to his hand- 
some rival, in which he compliments him gaily on 
the good graces of the lady. 

Saint Lambert, ce n'est que pour toi 
Que ces belles fleurs sont ^closes, 

• "Vie privee de Voltaire et d.» Madame du Chatelet,'' in a .«« 
W» of letter?, written by Madame de i J raffigny during her stay at 
Clrey. The details in these letters are exceedingly amusing, but 
Ike style so diffuse, that it is scarcely possible to make extras 



190 FRENCH POETS. 

C'est ta main qui cueille les roses, 
Et les Opines sont pour moi ! * 

Some months afterwards, Madame du Chatelet 
flied in childbirth, in her forty-fourth year. 

Voltaire was so overwhelmed by this loss, that 
he set off for Paris immediately pour se dissiper. 
Marmontel has given us a most ludicrous account 
of a visit of condolence he paid him on this occa- 
sion. He found Voltaire absolutely drowned in 
tears ; at every fresh burst of sorrow, he called on 
Marmontel to sympathize with him. " Helas ! j'ai 
perdu mon illustre amie ! Ah ! ah ! je suis au 
desespoir ! " — Then exclaiming against Saint Lam- 
bert, whom he accused as the cause of the catas- 
trophe — " Ah ! mon ami ! il me l'a tuee, le brutal ! " 
while Marmontel, who had often heard him abuse 
his "sublime Emilie" in no measured terms, as 
" une furie, attachee a ses pas," hid his face with 
his handkerchief in pretended sympathy, but in 
reality to conceal his irrepressible smiles. In the 
midst of this scene of despair, some ridiculous idea 
or story striking Voltaire's vivid fancy, threw him 
into fits of laughter, and some time elapsed before 
he recollected that he was inconsolable. 

The death of Madame du Chatelet, the circum- 
stances which attended it, and the celebrity of 
herself and her lover, combined to cause a grea' 
unsation. No elegies indeed appealed on the oc 
eaaion, — " no tears eternal that embalm the dead ; 

* Epitre a Saint Lambert. 



MAD \ Ml Dl ill i I III r. 491 

nut a slinwcr of epigrams and ban mots some 
Bxquisitcly witty and malicious. The story of hei 
ring, in which Voltaire and her husband each ex- 
pected to find liis own portrait, and which on being 
opened, was found, to the otter discomfiture of 
both, to contain that of Saint Lambert, is well 
known. 

It' we may jndge from her picture, Madame du 
Chitelet must have been extremely pretty. Her 
eyas were fine and piercing; her features delicate, 
with a good deal ofjinesse and intelligence in their 
expression. But her countenance, like her char- 
acter, was devoid of interest. She had great power 
of mental abstraction ; and on one occasion she 
went through a most complicated calculation of 
figures in her head, while she played and won a 
game at piquet She could be graceful and fasci- 
nating, luit her manners were, in general, extremely 
disagreeable ; and her parade of learning, her 
affectation, her egotism, her utter disregard of the 
comforts, feelings, and opinions of others, are well 
portrayed in two or three brilliant strokes of sar- 
casm from the pen of Madame de Stael.* She 
even turns her philosophy into ridicule. " Kile fait 
actuellement la revue de ses Principes;f e'est un 
exercise qu'elle reitere chaque annee, sans quoi 
lis pourroient s'cehapper ; et peut-etre s'en aller si 
bin qu'elle n'en retrouverait pas un seuL Je croia 

* M-ullle de T.tunay: it has become necessary to distinguish 
between two celebrated women bearing the same name, at leaal 
hi sound. 

* "Ues prinoipes do la philosophic de Newton.' 



492 FRENCH POETS. 

oien que sa tete est pour eux une maison de force, 
et non pas le lieu de leur naissance." * 

That Madame du Chatelet was a woman of ex- 
traordinary talent, and that her progress in abstract 
sciences was uncommon, and even unique at that 
time, at least among her own sex, is beyond a 
doubt ; but her learned treatises on Newton, and 
the nature of fire, are now utterly forgotten. We 
have since had a Mrs. Marcet ; and we have read 
of Gaetana Agnesi, who was professor of mathemat- 
ics in the University of Padua ; two women who, 
uniting to the rarest philosophical acquirements, 
gentleness and virtue, have needed no poet to im- 
mortalize them. 

Of the numerous poems which Voltaire addressed 
to Madame du Chatelet the Epistle beginning 



■* V. Correspondence de Madame de Deffand In another letter 
from Sceaux, Madame de Stae'l adds the following clever, satirical, 
— but most characteristic picture : — 

"En tout cas on vous garde un bon appartement : c'est celui 
dont Madame du CMtelet, apres une revue exacte de toute la 
maison, s'etait emparee. II y aura un peu moins de meublea 
qu'elle n'y en avait mis ; car elle avait devaste tous ceux par ou 
elle avait passe pour garnir celui-la. On y a trouve six ou sept 
tables ; il lui en faut de toutes les grandeurs ; d'immenses pour 
etaler ses papiers, de solides pour soutenir son necessaire, ie 
plus legeres pour ses pompons, pour ses bijoux; et cette bella 
tirdonnance ne l'a pas garantie d'un accident pareil a celui qui 
*rrive a Phillippe II. quand, apres avoir passe la nuit a ecrire, 
on repandit une bouteille d'encre sur ses depeches. La dame ne 
g'est pas piquee d'imiter la moderation de ce prince; aus£ 
n'avait-il ecrit que sur des affaires d'etat; et ce qu'on lui a 
bar^nille, c'etait de l'algebre, bien plus difficile a remettre at 
fcet." 



MADAME i>r CH 5 I I 493 

Tu m'appellea a tol, varte at puissant g^nie, 
Minerve do la Franco, immortelle Emilie, 

is a chef-d'oeuvre, and contains some of the finest 
Hnes he ever wrote. The Epistle to heron calumny, 
written to console her for the abuse and ridicule 
which her abstractions and indiscretions had pro- 
voked, begins with these beautiful lines — 

Ecoutez-moi, respectable Emilie: 
Vous gtes belle; ainsi done la moitie" 
Du genre lmmain sera votre ennemie: 
Vous poss^dez un sublime g^nie; 
On vous craindra; votre tendre amitfe" 
Est confiante ; et vous serez trahie : 
Votre vertu dans sa d-marche unie, 
Simple et sans fard, n'a point sacrifie 
A nos devots ; craignez la calomnie. 

With that famous ring, from which he had after- 
wards the mortification to discover that his own 
portrait had been banished to make room for that 
of Saint Lambert, he sent her this elegant quatrain. 

Barier grava ces traits distin^s pour vos yeux; 
Avec quelque plaisir daignez les reconnoitre : 
Les votres dans mon coeur furent graves bien mieux, 
Mais ce fut par un plus grand maitre. 

The heroine of the famous Epistle, known as 
u Les tu et les vous," (Madame de Gouverne,) 
was one of Voltaire's earliest loves ; and he wa* 
passionately attached to her. They were separated 



<94 FRENCH POETS. 

in the world : — she went through the usual rtnUina 
of a French woman's existence, — I mean, of a 
French woman I'ancien regime. 

Quelques plaisirs dans la jeunesse, 

Des soins dans la maternity, 
Tous les malheurs dans la vieillesse, 

Puis la peur de 1' eternity. 

She was first dissipated ; then an esprit fort 
then tres devote. In obedience to her confessor, 
she discarded, one after the other, her rouge, her 
ribbons, and the presents and billets-doux of her 
lovers ; but no remonstrances could induce her to 
give up Voltaire's picture. When he returned 
from exile in 1778, he went to pay a visit to his old 
love ; they had not met for fifty years, and they 
now gazed on each other in silent dismay. He 
looked, I suppose, like the dried mummy of an 
ape : ske, like a withered sorciere. The same even- 
ing she sent him back his portrait, which she had 
hitherto refused to part with. Nothing remained 
to shed illusion over the past ; she had beheld, 
even before the last terrible proof — 

What dust we doat on, when 'tis man we love. 

And Voltaire, on his side, was not less dismayed 
by his visit. On returning from her, he exclaimed, 
with a shrug of mingled disgust and horror, " Ah, 
mes amis ! je viens de passer a l'autre bord di* 
Cocyte ! " It was not thus that Cowper felt for hi» 



M \|> \Mh D'HOC Ml I OT. 4Sl 

M;uy, wIhmi •• her auburn lockfl irere changed to 
pay:" but it ia almost an insult to the memory 
of true tenderness to mention them both in the 
nine page. 

To enumerate other vromen vrhohare been cel- 
ebrated by Voltaire, would be to give a list of all 
the beautiful and distinguished women of Franc© 

for half a century ; from the DucheSSC <!•■ Richer- 
lieu and Mad.unc de Luxembourg, down to Camarno 
tlie dancer, and Clairon and 1c Couvreur tn< 

tresses: but I can find no name of any poetical 

fame or interest among them : nor can I conceive 
any tiling more revolting than the history of French 
society and manners during the Regency and the 

whole of the rei<;n of Louis the Fifteenth. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

FRENCH POETRY, CONTINUED. 
M.VO.VMK D'HOUDETOT. 

Saint Lambbbt, who seemed destined to rival 

greater men than himself, after carrying off Ma- 
dame du Chfttelet from Voltaire, became the favored 
over of the Comtesse d Houdetot, Rousseau's So- 
phie ; she for whom the philosopher first felt love, 



t96 FRENCH POETS. 

:l dans toute son energie, toutes sesfureurs" — but in 
vain. 

Saint Lambert is allowed to be an elegant poet 
his Saisons were once as popular in France, as 
Thomson's Seasons are here ; but they have not 
retained their popularity. The French poem, 
though in many parts imitated from the English, is 
as unlike it as possible : correct, polished, elegant, 
full of beautiful lines, — of what the French call de 
beaux vers, — and yet excessively dull. It is equally 
impossible to find fault with it in parts, or endure 
it as a whole. Une petite pointe de verve would 
have rendered it delightful ; but the total want of 
enthusiasm in the writer freezes the reader. As 
Madame du Deffand said, in humorous mockery of 
his monotonous harmony, " Sans les oiseaux, lea 
ruisseaux, les hameaux, les ormeaux, et leur ra- 
meaux, il aurait bien peu de choses a dire ! " 

Madame d'Houdetot was the Doris to whom the 
Seasons are dedicated : and the opening passage 
addressed to her, is extremely admired by French 
critics. 

Et toi, qui m'as choisi pour embellir ma vie, 
Doux repos de mon coeur, aimable et tendre amie ! 
Toi, qui sais de nos champs admirer les beautes : 
D6robe-tc\ Doris ! au luxe des cites, 
Aux arts dont tu jouis, au monde ou tu sais plaire; 
Le printemps te rappelle au vallon solitaire ; 
Heureux si pres de toi je chante a son retour, 
Ses dons et ses plaisirs,la campagne et l'amour! 

Sophie de la Briche, afterwards Madame d'flou 



M \i> \ m i: D*H0U1 1 rOT. 497 

detot, was the daughter of a rich fermier ginittd j 
kikI destined, of coin--,., to a marriage de conve- 
Danee, Bhe was anited very young to tin- Camta 
d'Houdetot, as officer of rank in the army; a man 
who was allowed by bis friends to 1"- tree /■> u amity 
Vc, and whom Madame d*Epinay, who bated him, 
called riinin and insupportable. Be was too good- 
natured to make his wife absolutely miserable, but 
un bonhew a /aire mourvr d'ennui, was not ex- 
actly adapted to the disposition of Sophie ; and 
there was no principle within, no restraint without, 
no support, no counsel, no example, to guide her 
conduct or guard her against temptation. 

The power by which Madame d'Houdetot cap- 
tivated the gay, handsome, dissipated Saint Lam- 
bert, and kindled into a Maze the passions or the 
imagination of Rousseau, was not that of beauty. 
Her face was plain and Blightly marked with the 
smallpox; her eyes were not good; she was ex- 
tremely short-sighted, which gave to her coun- 
tenance and address an appearance of uncertainty 
and timidity ; her figure was mignonne, and in all 
her movement^ there was an indescribable mixture 

of grace and awkwardness. The charm by which 

this woman seized and kept the hearts, not of lovers 
only, but of friends, was a character the very re- 
verse of that oi' Madame du Chfitelet, who would 
have deemed it an insult to be compared to her 
either in mind or beauty : — the absence of all pre- 
tension, all coquetry; the total surrender of her 
own feelings, thoughts, interests, where another 

62 



198 FRENCH POETS. 

was concerned ; the frankness which verged on gid 
fliness and imprudence ; the temper which nothing 
eould ruffle ; the warm kindness which nothing 
eould chill ; the bounding spirit of gayety, which 
nothing could subdue, — these qualities rendered 
Madame d'Houdetot an attaching and interesting 
creature, to the latest moment of her long life. 
" Mon Dieu ! que j'ai d'impatience de voir dix ans 
de plus sur la tete de cette femme ! " exclaimed 
her sister-in-law, Madame d'Epinay, when she saw 
her at the age of twenty. But at the age of eighty, 
Madame d'Houdetot was just as much a child as 
ever, — " aussi vive, aussi enfant, aussi gaie, aussi 
distraite, aussi bonne et tres bonne ; " * in spite of 
wrinkles, sorrows, and frailties, she retained, in ex- 
treme old age, the gayety, the tenderness, the con- 
fiding simplicity, though not the innocence of early 
youth. 

Her liaison with Saint Lambert continued fifty 
years, nor was she ever suspected of any other in- 
discretion. During this time he contrived to make 
her as wretched as a woman of her disposition 
could be made; and the elasticity of her spirits 
did not prevent her from being acutely sensible to 
pain, and alive to unkindness. Saint Lambert, 
from being her lover, became her tyrant. He 
behaved with a peevish jealousy, a petulance, a 
bitterness, which sometimes drove her beyond the 
bounds of a woman's patience ; and whenever this 
happened, the accommodating husband, M. d'Hoi> 

• Memoires et Lettres de Madame d'Epinay, torn, i p. 96. 



MADAME I'll. > I . 

letot, would interfere to reconcile the lovers, and 
plead for the recall of the offender. 

W'liru Sainl Lambert's bealtfa became utterly 
broken, she watched over hire with a patienl ten- 
derness, unwearied by all hi . Bind un« 
provoked by bis detestable temper ; he bad a I 
near hers in the valley of Montmorenci, and lived 
on perfectly good terma with her husband. I 
must add one trait, which, however absurd, and 
scarcely credible, it may sound in our sober, Eng- 
lish ears, is yet true. M. and Madame d'Houdetot 
gave a Rite at Eaubonne, to celebrate the fiftieth 
anniversary of their marriage. Sophie was then 
nearly seventy, but played her part, as the heroine 
ofthe day, withal] the grace and vivacity of seven- 
teen. On this occasion, the lover and the husband 
chose, for the first time in their lives, to be jealous 

of each other, and exhibited, to the amusement and 

astonishment of the guests, a scene, which was for 
Borne time the talk ot* ;dl Paris. 

Saint Lambert died in 1805. After his death, 
Madame d'Houdetot was seized with sentimental 
teiulresse for M. Som.ifiva,* and continued to send 
him bouquets and billets-doux to the end of her 
fife. S1h> died about 1815. 

To her singular power of charming, Madame 
d'Houdetot added talents of no common order, 
which, though never cultivated with any pcrse- 

* M. Somariva- is well known to all who have visited Paris, for 
tie fine collodion of pictures, and partte Jlarly as the possessor 
* CimoTu's t'lnuvi, Sfagdales 



500 FRENCH POETS. 

verance, now and then displayed, or rather di*> 
closed themselves unexpectedly, adding surprise to 
pleasure. She was a musician, a poetess, a wit ; — 
but every thing, " par la grace de Dieu," — and as 
if unconsciously and involuntarily. All Saint Lam- 
bert's poetry together is not worth the little song 
she composed for him on his departure for the 
army :— 

L' Amant que j' adore, 

Pr§t a me quitter, 
D'an instant encore 

Voudrait profiter: 
F elicit e* vaine ! 

Qu'on ne peut saisir, 
Trop pres de la peine 

Pour etre un plaisir!* 

It is to Madame d'Houdetot that Lord Byron 
alludes in a striking passage of the third canto of 
Childe Harold, beginning 

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, f &c. 

And apropos to Rousseau, I shall merely observe 
that there is, and can be but one opinion with re- 
gard to his conduct in the affair of Madame d'Hou- 
detot : it was abominable. She thought, as every 
one who ever was connected with that man, found 
looner or later, that he was all made up of genius 
»nd imagination, and as destitute 3f heart as of 

* See Lady Morgan's France, and the Biographie Universella 
t Stanza 17, and more particularly stanza 79. 



M. MIAMI, D'lli). 1)1 I <> T. 501 

noral principle. I can oever think of his char* 
icter, bul as of something at once admirable, por- 
tentous, and shocking; the most great, most idt'tcd, 
most wretched ; — worst, meanest, maddest of man- 

kind! 

* ♦ * * 

Madame da Chfttelel ami Madame d'lloudeto* 
must for the present In- deemed sufficient Bpecimeni 
of French poetical heroines; it were easy to pursm 
the Bubject farther, bnl it would Lead to a fa-Id of 

discussion and illustration, which I would rathei 

decline.* 

Is it not singular that in a country which was the 
Cradle, if not the birthplace of modern poetry and 
romance, the language, the literature, and the 
women, should be so essentially and incurably pro- 
saic? The muse of French poetry never swept a 
lyre; she grinds a barrel-organ in her serious 
moods, and she scrapes a fiddle in her lively ones; 
and as for the distinguished Frenchwomen, whose 
memory and whose characters are blended with 
the Literature, and connected with the great names 
of their country, — they are often admirable, and 

* In one of Madame de Genus's prettiest Tales — " Les preven- 
tions d'une foiuine." there is the following observation, as full 
of truth as of feminine propriety. I trust that the principle it 
Inculcates has been kept in view through th«> whole cf this litUe 
work. 

k ' II y a plus de pudeur it de dignitc dans la douct indulgence 
(Hi semble iirnorer le? anecdotes scandaleuses ou du moins, let 
Je>oquer en douto, qu« Inns lcd6dain qui en retrace le souvenir 
It qui s'erige publiquement en juge inflexible." 



502 HEROINES OF MODERN POETRY. 

sometimes interesting; but with all their fascina 
tions, their charms, their esprit, their graces, their 
amabilite and their sensibilite, it was not in the powei 
of the gods or their lovers to make them poetical. 



CONCLUSION. 

HEROINES OF MODERN POETRY. 

Heureuse la Beaute que le poete adore ! 
Heureuxle nom qu'il a chante ! — De Lamaethie. 

It will be allowed, I think, that women have 
reason to be satisfied with the rank they hold in 
modern poetry ; and that the homage which has 
been addressed to them, either directly and indi- 
vidually, or paid indirectly and generally, in the 
beautiful characters and portraits drawn of them, 
ought to satisfy equally female sentiment and female 
vanity. From the half ethereal forms which float 
amid moonbeams and gems, and odors and flowers, 
along the dazzling pages of Lalla Rookh, down to 
Phoebe Dawson, in the Parish Register :* from 
that loveliest gem of polished life, the young 
Aurora of Lord Byron, down to Words worth's 
poor Margaret weeping in her deserted cottage :1 
all the various aspects between these wide extremes 

*CrabV«'8 Poems. t See the Excursion. 



■KROIHBfl 01 MODI kn I'ni iky. 505 

t>f character and situation, under which we have 
iM-cn exhibited, have been, with few exceptional 
jusl and favorable to our box. 

In the literature <>!' the classical ages, we were 
lebased Into mere servants <>i" pleasure, alternatelj 
du' objects of loose incense or coarse invective. 
In the poetry of the Gothic ages, we all rank ai 
queens. In the Bucceeding period, when the Pla- 
tonic philosophy w.i- oddly mixed ap with the 
institutions of chivalry, we were exalted into 
divinities ; " angels called, and angel-like adored." 
Then followed the age of French gallantly, tinged 
with classical elegance, and tainted with classical 
license, when we were caressed, complimented, 
wooed and satirized by coxcomb poets, 

Who ever mix'd their song with light licentious toys. 

There was much expenditure of wit and of talent, 
but in an ill cause ; — for the feeling was, aufond, 
bad and false ; — " et il n'est guere plaisant d'etre 
empoisonne, meme par l'esprit de rose." 

In the present time a better spirit prevails. We 
are not indeed sublimated into goddesses ; but 
neither is it the fashion to degrade us into the 
playthings of fopling poets. We seem to have 
found, at length, our proper level in poetry, as in 
society; and take the place assigned to us at 
Vomen — 

As civ:i tii res not too bright or good, 
For human nature's dai" - food; 



504 HEROINES OP MODERN POETRY. 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Fraise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles!* 

We are represented as ruling by our feminine 
attractions, moral or exterior, the passions and 
imaginations of men ; as claiming, by our weak- 
ness, our delicacy, our devotion, — their protection, 
their tenderness, and their gratitude : and since 
the minds of women have been more generally 
and highly cultivated ; since a Madame de Stael, a 
Joanna Baillie, a Maria Edgeworth, and a hundred 
other names, now shining aloft like stars, have shed 
a reflected glory on the whole sex they belong to, 
we possess through them, a claim to admiration 
and respect for our mental capabilities. We assume 
the right of passing judgment on the poetical 
homage addressed to us, and our smiles alone can 
consecrate what our smiles first inspired.f 

If we look over the mass of poetry produced 
during the last twenty-five years, whether Italian, 
French, German, or English, we shall find that the 
predominant feeling is honorable to women, and if 
not gallantry, is something better.J It is too true 
that the incense has not been always perfectly 
pure. " Many light lays, — ah, wo . is me there- 

* Wordsworth. 

t Even so the smile of woman stamps our fates- 

And consecrates the love it first creates ! 

Barry Cornwall. 

% See in particular Schiller's ode, " Honor to Women," one of 
the most; elegant tributes ever paid to us by a poet's enthusiasm 
It may be found translated in Lord F. Gower's beautiful littk 
•olume of Miscellanies. 



Ill kolM - «)l MoDI |;\ |'i,| n;Y. 101 

!(.:t'"* have sounded from one gifted lyre, whk*s 
hits since been stroi patriotism and 

tendernesa Moore, whom I am proud, for a thou- 
sand reasons, to claim as my countryman, began 
his Literary and amatory career, freeh from the study 
of the classics, and the poets of Charles the Second's 
time; and too often through the thin undress of 
superficial refinement, we trace the grossm 

his models. It is said, I know not how truly, that 

he has since made the amende honorable* EL 
possibly discovered, that women of Bense and senti- 
ment, who have a true feeling of what is due to 
them us women, arc not fitly addressed in the style 

ot* Anacivon and Catullus; haw no sympathies 

with his equivocal Rosas, Fanny, and .Julias, and are 
not Battered by being associated with tavern orgies 
and bumpers of wine, and Buch "tipsy revelry." 

Into themes like these he has, it is true, infused B 
buoyant spirit of gayety, a tone of sentiment, and 
touches of tender and moral feeling, which would 
reconcile us to them, if any thing could ; as in the 
beautiful songs, " When time, who steals our years 
away," — " O think not my spirits are always as 
light," — "Farewelll but whenever you think on 
the hour," — "The Legacy," and a hundred others. 
But how many mors are there, in which the p.iritt 

• Many light lays (ah ! wo is me the more) 
In praise of that mad fit which fools sail love, 
I have i' the heat of youth made heretofore 
That in Hght wit.s did loose affections move 
But all these follies do I new reprove &c. 

Speitttr 



DOG HEROINES OF MODERN POETRY. 

and earnestness of the feeling- vie with the grace 
and delicacy of the expression ! and in the difficult 
art (only to be appreciated by a singer) of marry- 
ing verse to sound, Moore was never excelled — 
never equalled — but by Burns. He seems to be 
gifted, as poet and musician, with a double instinct 
of harmony, peculiar to himself. 

Barry Cornwall is another living poet who has 
drunk deep from the classics and from our elder 
writers ; but with a finer taste and a better feeling, 
he has borrowed only what was decorative, graceful 
and accessory : the pure stream of his sentiment 
flows unmingled and untainted, — 

Yet musical as when the waters run, 
Lapsing through sylvan haunts deliciously.* 

It is not without reason that Barry Cornwall has 
been styled the " Poet of Woman," par excellence. 
It enhances the value, it adds to the charm of every 
tender and beautiful passage addressed to us, that 
we know them to be sincere and heartfelt, 

Not fable bred, 
But such as truest poets love to write. 

It is for the sake of one, beloved " beyond 
ambition and the light of song," — and worthy to be 
bo loved, that he approaches all women with the 
most graceful, delicate, and reverential homage 
ever uxpressed in sweet poetry. His fancy is in 

* Marcian Colonna. 



SI k<>i\ B8 01 MODERN POI I KY. *>07 

: > luxuriant, that he makes whatever lm 

touches appear fanciful : but the idorned 

by hia verse, and adorning his home, is not imagin- 
ai i : and though he hat almost hidden hia divinity 
behind a cloud of incense, she is qc4 therefore less 
real. 

The life Lord Byron led was not calculated to 
give him a good opinion of women, or to place 
before him the beet virtues of our sex. Of all 
modern poets, be has been the most generally popu- 
lar among female readers; and he owes this en- 
thusiam not certainly to our obligations to him; 
for, BS far as women are concerned, we may desig- 
nate his works by a line borrowed from himself, — 

With much to excite, there's little to exalt. 

But who, like him, could administer to that 
M besoin de sentir" which I am afraid is an ingredi- 
ent in the feminine character all over the world V 

Lord Byron is really the Grand Turk of amatory 
poetry, — ardent in his love, — mean and merciless 
in his resentment : he could trace passion in 
characters of fire, but his caustic satire burns and 
Misters where it falls. Lovely as are some of 
his female portraits, and inimitably beautiful as 
are some of his lyrical effusions, it must be con- 
fessed there is something very Oriental in all his 
feelings and ideas about women ; he seems to 
require nothing of us but beauty and submission 
Mease him — and he will crown you with the 



308 HEROINES OF MODERN POETRY. 

*ichest flowers of poetry, and heap the treasure! 
of the universe at your feet, as trophies of hia 
love ; but once offend him, and you are lost, — 

There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea 

Campbell, ever elegant and tender, has hymned 
us all into divinities and through his sweet and 
varied page, 

Where love pursues an ever devious race, 
True to the winding lineaments of grace, 

we figure under every beautiful aspect that truth 
and feeling could inspire, or poetry depict. 

Sir Walter Scott ought to have lived in the age 
of chivalry, (if we could endure the thoughts of his 
living in any other age but our own !) so touched 
with the true antique spirit of generous devotion to 
our sex are all his poetical portraits of women. 
I do not find that he has, like most other writers of 
the present day, mixed up his personal feelings and 
history with his poetry ; or that any fair and dis- 
tinguished object will be so thrice fortunate as to 
shars his laurelled immortality. We must there 
fore treat him like Shakspeare, whom alone he 
resembles — and claim him for us all. 

Then there is Rogers, whose compliments to m 
are so polished, so pointed, and so elegantly turned, 
and have such a drawing-room air, that they seem 
as if intended to be presented to Duchesses, by 
Beaux in white kid gloves. And there is Coleridgf 



Bl BO] v ' - 01 MODI RH POKTRT. 503 

who approaches women with a mil of feeling half 
sarthly half heavenly, like thai with whi<h ar. 
Italian devotee I. ends before hie Madonna — 

And comes unto his courtship as his prayer. 

And there is Souther, in whose imagination we are 

all heroines and queens; and Wordsworth, lost in 
the depths of his own tenderne 

***** 
Tin' time is not yet arrived, when the loves of 
the living poeta, or of those lately dead, can be 
discussed individually, or exhibited at full length. 
The subject is much too hazardous for a contempo- 
rary, and more particnlarly for a female to dwell 
upon. Such details belong properly to the next 
age, and there is no fear that these gossiping times 
will leave any thing a mystery for posterity. The 
next generation will he infinitely wiser on these 
interesting subjects than their grandmothers. Yet 
a few years, and what is scandal and personality 
now, will (hen be matter for biography and history. 
Then many a love, destined to rival that of Pe- 
trarch in purity and celebrity, and that of Tasso 
in interest, shall be divulged; the thread of many 
a poetical romance now coiled up in mystic verse, 
shall then be evolved. Then we shall know the' 
)rue history of Lord Byron's " Fare thee well." 
We shall then know more than the mere name of 
bis Mary,* who first kindled his boyish fancy, and 

• Miss Chaworth now Mr?. Musters. 



510 HEROINES OF MODERN POETRT. 

eft an ineffaceable impression on his young heart, 
and whose history is said to be shadowed forth in 
u The Dream." We may then know who waa 
the heroine of " Remember him whom passion's 
power : " whose moonlight charms at once so 
radiant and so shadowy, inspired " She walks in 
beauty ; " we shall be told, perhaps, who was the 
Thyrza, so loving and beloved in life, and whoso 
early death, which appears to have taken place 
during his travels, is so deeply, so feelingly la- 
mented : and who was his Ginevra,* and what spot 
of earth was made happy by her beautiful pres- 
ence — if any thing so divinely beautiful ever was ! 

Then we shall not ask in vain who was Camp- 
bell's Caroline ?f Whether she did, indeed, walk 
this earth in mortal beauty, or was net rather 
invoked by the poet's spell, from the soft evening 
star which shone upon her bower ? 

Then we shall know upon whose white bosom 
perished that rose,$ which, dying, bequeathed with 
its odorous breath a tale of truest love to after- 
times, and glory to her, whose breast was its envied 
tomb — to her, whose heart has thrilled to the 
homage of her poet, — yet who would " blush tojina 
ft fame!" 

Then we shall know who was the " Lucy," 

Who dwelt among the untrodden ways, 

Beside the springs of Dove ; § 
* Lord Byron's Works, vol. iii. p. 183, (small ediv) 
■f Campbell's Poems, vol. ii. p. 202. 
% Barry Cornwall's Poems, " Lines on a Rose." 
i Wordsworth's Poems, vol. i. p. 181. 



" : l: ' ' "i.r.:Y. 61 1 

md who «u the heroine of that most exquisite 

picture of feminine loveliness in .-ill il. 

M She was a Phantom of delight" ►— No phantom, 

it is said, but a fair reality : 

A being, biesJMngthoogitral br. 

A traveller betwixt lite :md death, 

vet fated not to die, while verse can live. ! 

Then we shall know whose tear has been pre- 
u by Kogen with a power beyond " the 
Chemist*- magic art;" who was the lovely bride 
who is defined to blush and tremble in his Epi- 
thalaniium, for a thousand years to come j and to 
what lair obdurak. is addressed his '• Farewell." 

We may then learn who was that sweet Marv 
who adorned the cottage-home of Wilson; and 
who was the " Wild Louisa," of whom he has 
drawn such a captivating picture; first as the 
sprightly girl floating down the dance, 

With footsteps light as falling snow, 
and afterwards as the matron and the mother, 
hanging over the cradle of her infant, and blessing 
him in his sleep. 

Then we may tell who was the " Bonnie Jean," 
sung by Allan Cunningham, whose destructive 
:harms are so pleasantly, so naturally touched upon- 
Sair she dighta the lads- 
Three ire like to die; 
Four in Borrow listed, — 
And five flew to sea ! 
• Wordsworth, vol. ii. p. 132. 



5*2 HEROINES OF MODERN POETRY. 

This rural beauty, who caused such terrible 
devastation, and who it is said, first made a poet, of 
her lover, became afterwards his wife ; and in her 
matronly character, she inspired that beautiful 
little effusion of conjugal tenderness, " The Poet's 
Bridal Song." When first published, it was almost 
universally copied, and committed to memory ; and 
Allan Cunningham may not only boast that he has 
woven a wreath " to grace his Jean," 

While rivers flow and woods are green, 

but that he has given the sweet wife, seated among 
her children in sedate and matronly loveliness, an 
interest even beyond that which belongs to the 
young girl he has described with raven locks and 
cheeks of cream, driving rustic admirers to despair, 
or lingering with her lover at eve, 

Amid the falling dew, 
When looks were fond, and words were few ! 

Such is the charm of affection, and truth, and 
moral feeling, carried straight into the heart by 
poetry ! 

What a new interest and charm will be given 
to many of Moore's beautiful songs, when we are 
allowed to trace the feeling that inspired them, 
whether derived from some immediate and present 
impression; or from remembered emotion, that 
sometimes swells in the breast, like the heaving of 
the waves, when the winds are still ! Several of 



SEBOINEfi Ol MDDI.IIN I'O!. I |{Y. 613 

the most charming of his lyrics are-aid to bo in. 
ipired by M the heart so warm, and eyes ho bright," 
wliidi first taught him the value of domestic happi- 
ness; — taught him that the true poet need not rove 
abroad for themes of song, hut may kindle hi* 

genius at the Maine which glows on his own hearth, 
and make the Muses his household goddoSBOB.* 

(iifford, the late editor of the (Quarterly Review, 
and the author of the Uaviad and Ma/vi ad, was in 
early youth doomed to Btruggle with poverty, ob- 
scurity, ill-health, and every hardship which could 
cheek the rise of genius. He has himself de- 
scribed the (Meet produced on his mind, under 
these circumstances, by his a'.taehment to an ami- 
able and gentle girl. " I crept on," he says, " in 
silent discontent, unfriended and unpitied ; indig- 
nant at the present, careless of the future, — an 
object at once of apprehension and dislike. From 
this state of abjectness 1 was raised by a young 
voman of my own class. She was a neighbor ; 
and whenever I took my solitary walk with my 
Wolfius in my pocket, she usually came to the 
door, and by a smile, or a short question, put in the 
friendliest manner, endeavored to solicit my at- 
tention. My heart had been long shut to kind- 
; but the sentiment was not dead within me 



• Bee In Moore's Lyrics the beautiful song, " I'd mourn tht 
opee that leave me." The concluding stanza is in point : 
Far better hopes shall win me, 

Along the path I've yet to roam, 
The mind that burns vnthin me, 
And pure smile from thee at hojiu 
88 



114 HEROINES OF MODERN POETRY. 

it revived at the first encouraging word ; and the 
gratitude I felt for it, was the first pleasing sensa- 
tion I had ventured to entertain for many dreary 
months." 

There are two little effusions inserted in the notea 
to the Baviad and Mseviad, which have since been 
multiplied by copies, and have found their way 
into almost all collections of lyric poetry and 
" Elegant Extracts ; " one of these was composed 
during the life of Anna ; the other, written after 
her death, and beginning, 

I wish I were where Anna lies, 
Fori am sick of lingering here, 



Is extremely striking from its unadorned simplicity 
and profound pathos. — Such was not the prevailing 
style of amatory verse at the time it was written, 
nearly fifty years ago. Mr. Gifford never married 
and the effect of this early disappointment could 
be traced in his mind and constitution to the last 
moments of his life. 

The same sad bereavement which tended tc 
make Gifford a caustic critic and satirist, made Mr, 
Bowles a sentimental poet. The subject of hi* 
Sonnets was real ; but he who has pointed out the 
difference between natural and fabricated feeling, 
should not have left a blank for the name of her he 
.aments. He gives us indeed a formal permission 
jo fill up the blank with any name we choose 
But it is not the same thing ; the name of thf 



HEROINES OF MODERN POETRY. 310 

woman who inspired ■ poet, ifl quite as important 
to posterity, as the doom of the poet himself. 

Who was tin- Hannah, whose fickleness occa- 
lioned that exquisite little poem which Montgomery 
has inscribed " To the memory of her who is dead 
to me V " Tt tells a talc of youthful love, of trust 
ing affection, suddenly and eternally blighted, — 
snd with sin h a brevity, such a simplicity, such a 
fervent yet heart-broken earnestness, that I fear it 
must be tine ! 

At some future time, we shall, perhaps, be told 
who was the beautiful English girl, whose retiring 
charms won the heart of Hyppolito Pindemonte 
when he was here some years ago. His Canzone 
on her is, in Italy, considered as his masterpiece,* 
and even compared to some of Petrarch's. There 
are indeed few things in the compass of Italian 
poetry more sweet in expression, more true to feel- 
ing, than the lines in which Pindemonte, describing 
the blooming youth, the serene and quiet grace of 
this fair girl, disclaims the idea of even wishing to 
disturb the heavenly calm of her pure heart by a 
(♦assion such as agitates his own. 

II men di che pub Donna esser cortese 
Ver chi 1' ha di se stesso assai piu cara, 
Da te, vergine pura, io non vorrei. 

This was being very peculiarly disinterested.— 
We may also learn, at some future time, who was 

• See hi the M Dpere di Pindemonte," the Canaone, " Gioyatt 
ifct» che la dubbia via." 



M6 HEROINES OF MODERN POETRY. 

the sweet Elvire, to whom Alphonse de Lamartine 
has promised immortality, and not promised more 
than he has the power to bestow. He is one of the 
few French poets, who have created a real and a 
strong interest out of their own country. He ha8 
vanquished, by the mere force of genius and senti- 
ment, all the difficulties and deficiencies of the 
language in which he wrote, and has given to its 
limited poetical vocabulary a charm unknown 
before. He thus addresses Elvire in one of the 
Meditations Poetiques. 

Vois, d'un ceil de pitid, la vulgaire jeunesse 
Brillante de beauts, s'enivrant de plaisir; 
Quand elle aura tari sa coupe enchanteresse, 
Que restera-t-il d'elle? a peine un souvenir: 
Le tombeau qui 1' attend l'engloutittoute entiere, 
Un silence Eternal succede a ses amours; 
Mais les siecles auront passe" sur ta poussiere, 
Elvire !— et tu vivras toujours ! 

***** 

Over some of the heroines of modern poetry, 
the tomb has recently closed ; and the flowera 
scattered there could not be disturbed without 
awakening a pang in the bosoms of those who sur- 
vive. They sleep, but only for a while : they shall 
rise again — the grave shall yield them up, " even 
in the loveliest looks they wore," for a poet's love 
has redeemed them from death and from oblivion 
Methinks I see them even now with the prophetic 
eye of fancy, go floating over the ocean of time, in 
the light of their beauty and their fame, like Galatea 
and her nymphs triumphing upon the waters 1 



HEROINES OF MODERN POBTBT, .517 

Others, perhaps, (the widow of Burns, and 
widow of Monti, for instance,) are declining into 

wintry age: Borrow and thought have quenched 
the native beauty on their cluck, and furrowed the 
once polished brow ; yet crowned by poetry witli 
eternal youth and unfading charms, they will go 
down to posterity among the Lauras, the Geral- 
dines, the Sacharissas of other days ; — Nature her- 
self shall feel decrepitude, 

And, palsy-smitten, shako her starry brow, 

ere these grow old and die 1 

And some, even now, move gracefully through 
the shades of domestic life, and the universe, of 
whose beauty they will ere long form a part, 
knows them not. Undistinguished among the 
ephemeral divinities around them, not looking as 
though they felt the future glory round their brow, 
nor swelling with anticipated fame, they yet carry 
in their mild eyes, that light of love, which has 
nspired undying strains. 

And Queens hereafter shall be proud to live 
Upon the alms of their superfluous praise ! 



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